Boyhood 
Stories 

of 

Famous  Men 

^  TITIAN  @  CHOPIN   ® 
THORWALDSEN  ®  MURILLO 
GIOTTO  @  MENDELSSOHN 
GUIDO  RENI  &  TINTORETTO 
CLAUDE  LORRAINE 
ANDREA  DEL  SARTO 
^   MOZART   ^ 
STRADIVARIUS 

Katherine  Dunlap  Gather 


-C2B 


Cether.- 


boyhood   St cries   or 
famous  inen. 


n 


1--  [ 


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WAV  i  8  1932 

■']  •  .  .. 

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BOYHOOD  STORIES 
OF  FAMOUS  MEN 


Some  day  he  would  l)riiis  honor  to  his  name  and   tildiy   ui    i'oland 


BOYHOOD  STORIES 
OF   FAMOUS   MEN 


TITIAN  ^  CHOPIN  ^  ANDRE  DEL  SARTO 
THORWALDSEN  ^  MENDELSSOHN  »?  MOZART 
MURILLO  V»  STRADIVARIUS  >f  GUIDO  RENI 
CLAUDE  LORRAINE  ^^  TINTORETTO 
&  ROSA  BONHEUR  "TOMBOY  OF  BORDEAUX" 


BY 

KATHERINE  DUNLAP  GATHER 


ILLUSTRATEn 

BY  M.  L.  BOWER 


NEW  YORK 
THE  CENTURY  CO. 


87791 


Copyright,  1914,  1915,  1916,  by 
The  Century  Co 


Published,  September,  1916 


Printed  in   U.   S.  A. 


C  T 


r^  To 

p  MY  MOTHER 


\ 


HOW  IT  HAPPENED 


Once  upon  a  time  there  was  a  little  girl 
who  journeyed  very  often  into  an  enchanted 
valley.  In  it  were  rainbow-colored  mead- 
ows, marvelous  fruits  and  flowers  and  sing- 

'^  ing  birds,  and  forests  such  as  never  grew  in 
any  country  out  of  dreamland.  Fairies  and 
gnomes  and  sprites  danced  there  by  night, 
and  along  the  crystal  rivers  of  that  land 
Merlin  wrought  his  wizardry,  bringing  King 

i      Arthur  and  all  his  noble  knights  back  to  life 

\  again.  There  Sindbad  the  Sailor  walked 
side  by  side  with  Robin  Hood ;  there  Aladdin 
carried  his  wonder  lamp  past  the  balcony 

1  where  Juliet  waited  for  Romeo;  and  there 
^    the  children  of  Hamelin  town,  following  the 

5:3  piper  to  the  mountain  gate,  smiled  at  grave- 
eyed  Carl  making  pictures  by  the  Stove  of 
Nuremberg.  Richard  Coeur  de  Lion  and 
the  crusaders  rode  over  its  shining  highways 
as  they  moved  toward  Palestine,  and  several 
times  Puck  broke  right  through  the  proces- 
sion, whereupon  the  Lion  Heart  had  to  re- 

vii 


viii  HOW  IT  HAPPENED 

marshal  his  forces  before  they  could  go  on. 
The  whole  great  company  of  story  folk  gath- 
ered there,  and  the  only  way  mortals  could 
enter  was  to  become  acquainted  with  some 
member  of  the  enchanted  company  who  could 
lead  them  in.  Thus,  through  the  books  she 
read  and  the  tales  she  heard,  the  little  girl 
came  to  know  many  a  hero  at  whose  beckon- 
ing the  gates  swung  open,  and  she  beheld 
the  glories  beyond  them. 

But  after  a  while  she  took  no  more  jour- 
neys into  the  valley,  for  although  she  met 
many  splendid  book  people,  not  one  of  them 
had  the  power  to  take  her  back.  Instead  of 
walking  under  spreading  trees  with  the  en- 
chanted company,  she  had  to  stay  in  the 
world  without,  and  live  in  the  memory  of 
beautiful  days  spent  beyond  the  magic  gates. 
Always,  however,  things  seem  to  come  out 
right,  after  all,  for  one  morning  between  the 
covers  of  a  dingy  book,  she  found  just  what 
she  had  been  seeking.  In  "The  Child  of 
Urbino,"  Ouida's  lovely  tribute  to  the  great 
Raphael,  was  one  who  could  take  her  into 
the  rainbow  country.  The  gates  swung 
wide,  and  she  went  in  again  with  the  painter. 


HOW  IT  HAPPENED  ix 

Years  afterward,  when  she  was  grown, 
she  still  remembered  and  loved  'The  Child 
of  Urbino,"  partly  because  of  its  beauty, 
partly  because  of  all  it  had  meant  to  her.  It 
had  shown  her  the  way  into  a  wonderful 
realm.  It  had  caused  her  to  realize  that  the 
stories  of  great  creators  are  just  as  fasci- 
nating as  those  of  Ali  Baba,  Sigurd  the 
Volsung,  the  troubadours  who  sang  in  Prov- 
ence, or  the  crusaders  who  fought  in  Pales- 
tine, and  that  by  knowing  them  and  their 
works  the  gates  of  the  enchanted  valley 
would  never  close  to  her.  It  taught  her  to 
look  for  the  stories  underlying  great  pictures 
and  melodies;  and,  having  found  many,  the 
thought  occurred  to  her  that  she  ought  to 
share  her  treasures  with  boys  and  girls  who 
would  enjoy  them. 

So  one  day,  under  the  magnolias  of  a  Cali- 
fornia garden,  she  went  to  work,  and  out  of 
that  morning's  record  grew  the  story,  *'The 
Whittler  of  Cremona."  A  kindly  editor 
liked  it  and  asked  for  another,  and  thus 
''Boyhood  Stories  of  Famous  Men"  came  to 
be. 

The  facts  that  make  up  the  tales  have  been 


X  HOW  IT  HAPPENED 

gathered  through  many  years  and  in  many 
places,  some  from  libraries  in  great  Ameri- 
can cities  and  universities,  some  from  dusty 
manuscripts  in  museums  and  private  collec- 
tions across  the  sea,  some  from  the  lips  of 
peasants  who  repeated  legends  handed  down 
from  the  olden  time.  Most  of  them  have  al- 
ready appeared  in  the  St.  Nicholas  maga- 
zine; and  now,  through  the  pages  of  the 
book  they  come  to  you.  May  they  lead  you 
into  the  fascinating  world  of  melody  and 
color ;  may  they  open  the  magic  gates  for  you 
just  as  that  other  story  once  opened  them  for 
me,  into  that  rainbow  country  where  delights 
are  never  ending. 

Katherine  Dunlap  Gather. 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I    THE   BOY   OF   CADORE 3 

II     WHEN    MOZART    RACED    WITH    MARIE    ANTOI- 
NETTE       23 

III  THE  TOMBOY  FROM  BORDEAUX 43 

IV  JACOPO,   THE   LITTLE   DYER 65 

V     BARTOLOME'S   VELVET  HAT 85 

VI     THE  WHITTLER  OF  CREMONA lOI 

VII    A  BIT   O"   PINK  VERBENA II7 


VIII     A  SHEPHERD  LAD  OF  TUSCANY 


139 


IX    THE    BORDER    WONDERFUL I^g 

X    THE  WONDER-CHILD  OF  WARSAW 175 


XI    THE  LIGHT  OF  GUIDO'S  LAMP 


197 


XII    OLD  JAN'S  TWILIGHT  TALE 223 

XIII  WHEN  THE  PRINCESS  PASSED 241 

XIV  THE   JOYOUS   VAGABOND 259 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 


PAGE 


Some  day  he  would  bring  honor  to  his  name 
and   glory   to    Poland Frontispiece 

They  had  spent  the  afternoon  blossom  hunting   .     .      S 

A  group   of  folk  moved   toward  the  building  where 

the   lad   waited i6 

Away  they  went,  Marie's  yellow  curls  flying  ...  26 

Wolfgang  thought  only  of  the  music 35 

The  grandfather  stood  by  the  stone  gate  calling  good- 
by   as   they   drove   away 45 

The  room  that  was  her  workshop  came  to  be  a  sort 
of    Noah's   Ark 5^ 

Jacopo  began  his  work  with  the  Master 73 

Whenever  he  passed  a  gaudily  skirted  market-girl,  he 
saluted  with  the  air  of  a  grandee 87 

Memories  of  the  moor 93 

Day  after  day  he  toiled  in  the  workshop 107 

Then  Giotto  went  to  the  city 150 

"Upon  the   word   of  an   honest   Florentine   it  is  the 

work  of  a  lad" 167 

He  scarcely  breathed,  for  Catalani  was  singing  ...  189 
"And  you,  Bertel  Thorwaldsen,  what  do  you  want?"  .  227 
Wonderful,    roseate   days   began 273 


THE  BOY  OF  CADORE 


BOYHOOD  STORIES 
OF  FAMOUS  MEN 

I 

THE  BOY  OF  CADORE 

THE  boy's  eyes  were  dark  as  the  hearts 
of  the  daisies  he  carried,  and  they 
gazed  wistfully  after  the  horseman  who  was 
dashing  along  the  white  highway. 

"Think  of  it,  Catarina!"  he  exclaimed. 
"He  rides  to  the  wonderful  city." 

Catarina  looked  at  her  brother  as  if  she 
did  not  understand.  There  were  many 
towns  along  the  road  that  ribboned  away  to 
the  south,  each  of  which  seemed  large  in- 
deed to  the  mountain  girl,  yet  she  had  never 
thought  of  them  as  wonderful. 

"The  wonderful  city?"  she  repeated. 
"Where  is  that,  Tiziano?" 

"Why,  don't  you  know  ?"  he  asked  in  sur- 

3 


4  BOYHOOD  STORIES 

prise.  *'As  if  it  could  be  other  than  Venice, 
the  great  city  of  St.  Mark!" 

But  the  name  did  not  thrill  black-eyed 
Catarina.  Older  than  her  brother,  and  far 
less  of  a  dreamer,  she  had  heard  that  dread- 
ful things  happened  in  the  city,  and  that 
sometimes  people  went  hungry  there.  In  the 
mountains  there  was  food  enough  and  to 
spare,  and  though  no  one  was  rich  and  lived 
in  palaces  with  tapestried  walls  and  gorgeous 
furnishings,  neither  were  there  any  very 
poor.  So  she  shrugged  her  shoulders  and 
replied:  "Oh,  Venice!  I  don't  know  why 
you  call  that  wonderful.  Graziano,  the 
weaver,  has  been  there  many  times,  and  he 
thinks  it  not  half  as  nice  as  our  own  Cadore. 
There  are  no  mountains  there,  nor  meadows 
where  wild  flowers  grow.  Are  you  tired  of 
the  Dolomites,  Tiziano?" 

"Ah,  no!"  came  the  earnest  reply.  "But 
the  artists  live  in  the  city,  and  if  I  could  go 
there,  I  might  study  with  Bellini,  and  paint 
some  of  the  things  that  are  in  my  heart." 

Catarina  was  just  a  practical  village  girl, 
who  thought  that  if  one  had  enough  to  eat 
and  wear,  he  ought  to  be  satisfied.     So  her 


They    had    spent    the    afternoon    blossom    hunting 


THE  BOY  OF  CADORE  7 

voice  was  chiding  and  a  bit  impatient  as  she 
answered. 

''You  talk  so  much  about  painting,  and 
seeing  things  no  one  else  sees,  that  the  vil- 
lagers say  unless  you  get  over  your  dream- 
ing ways,  you  will  grow  up  to  be  of  no  ac- 
count. That  is  why  Father  thinks  of  ap- 
prenticing you  to  Luigi,  the  cobbler.  For  he 
can  teach  you  his  trade,  which  would  be  far 
better  than  always  thinking  about  Venice. 
For,  Tiziano,  there  are  other  things  in  the 
world  beside  painting." 

Tiziano  shook  his  head,  but  did  not  reply. 
Nothing  else  mattered  half  so  much  to  him, 
and  many  a  night,  when  the  rest  of  the  fam- 
ily were  sleeping,  he  lay  in  his  bed  wonder- 
ing how  he  could  persuade  his  father  to  let 
him  go  away  to  study.  It  was  well  known 
that  he  spent  many  hours  drawing  on  boards, 
stones,  and  anything  he  could  find,  and  that 
the  village  priest,  the  good  padrone,  had 
praised  his  work.  But  little  was  thought  of 
that.  Other  youths  of  Cadore  had  sketched 
as  well  and  amounted  to  nothing.  So  why 
should  he  be  sent  to  the  city  just  because  he 
could  copy  a  mountain  or  a  bit  of  woodland  ? 


8  BOYHOOD  STORIES 

For  he  could  not  make  them  understand  that 
color  was  what  seemed  to  burn  in  his  soul, 
because  that  he  could  not  express  with  char- 
coal. 

A  whistle  came  from  down  the  road,  and 
Catarina  saw  her  brother  Francesco  beckon- 
ing them  to  hurry. 

"They  must  be  ready  to  begin  weaving  the 
garlands !"  she  exclaimed. 

So  they  broke  into  a  run  toward  the  village 
inn. 

It  was  the  glowing,  fragrant  June  time  of 
the  Italian  highlands,  when  the  hillsides  and 
meadows  of  the  fertile  Dolomite  valleys  were 
masses  of  many  colored  bloom,  and  next  day 
the  Festival  of  Flowers  was  to  take  place. 
They  had  spent  the  afternoon  blossom  hunt- 
ing, and  now,  when  sunset  was  crimsoning 
the  peaks,  were  homeward  bound  with  their 
spoils,  to  aid  in  preparing  for  the  revelry. 

In  a  few  minutes,  they  joined  the  other 
young  people  at  the  inn,  and  began  making 
garlands,  and  planning  games  and  frolics  as 
they  worked.  Pieve  di  Cadore  was  very  far 
from  the  world  in  those  days  of  little  travel, 
and  when  the  time  of  a  festival  was  at  hand, 


THE  BOY  OF  CADORE  9 

the  villagers  were  as  light-hearted  as  the  gay 
Venetians  at  carnival  time.  Songs  and 
merry  jests  went  round,  and  bits  of  gossip 
were  told  to  eager  listeners. 

"Have  you  heard  that  Salvator,  the 
miller's  son,  is  going  to  Venice  to  study  the 
art  of  carving?"  asked  a  girl  whose  tongue 
kept  pace  with  her  hands.  ''Since  his  fa- 
ther has  become  rich,  he  has  given  up  the 
idea  of  having  him  follow  his  own  trade,  and 
thinks  it  more  elegant  to  become  a  sculptor. 
At  first,  Salvator  did  n't  fancy  it,  but  when 
told  that  an  artist  may  get  to  be  the  favorite 
of  a  great  lord  or  even  of  the  doge  himself, 
he  was  much  pleased.  Won't  it  be  splendid 
if  he  becomes  a  noted  man  and  lives  in  a  fine 
house?  Then  we  can  say,  'Why,  he  is  one 
of  our  Cadorini !'  " 

Sebastiano,  whose  uncle  was  a  lawyer's 
clerk  in  Bergamo,  and  who  knew  more  of 
city  ways  than  the  other  village  youths,  re- 
marked :  *T  did  n't  know  he  had  the  love  of 
carving.  It  takes  something  beside  a  rich 
father  to  make  an  artist." 

The  talkative  girl  tossed  her  head. 

"That  may  be!"  she  retorted.     ''But  no 


10  BOYHOOD  STORIES 

money,  no  masters ;  and  without  them,  pray, 
how  can  one  do  anything?" 

"So  I  tell  Tiziano  when  he  talks  about 
going  to  the  city  to  study  painting,"  Catarina 
broke  in.  "Father  is  not  rich,  and  it  would 
be  better  for  him  to  think  about  learning 
cobbling  with  Luigi." 

Peals  of  laughter  followed  the  announce- 
ment, and  some  one  called  out,  "Tiziano! 
Why,  he  has  n't  had  even  a  drawing-master. 
He  builds  the  tower  of  his  castle  before  he 
makes  the  foundation." 

Tiziano's  face  turned  very  red.  He  had 
no  teacher,  it  was  true.  But  he  believed  he 
could  prove  he  was  worth  one  if  given  a 
chance. 

"Oh,  if  I  only  had  some  paints!"  he 
thought.  "Maybe  they  would  stop  calling 
me  a  dreamer,  for  I  am  sure  I  could  make  a 
picture,  and  then  perhaps  I  could  go." 

But  pigments  were  rare  and  costly,  and 
though  his  father  was  a  well-to-do  moun- 
taineer, he  had  no  gold  to  waste  in  buying 
colors  for  a  lad  who  had  never  been  taught 
to  use  them,  and  of  course  would  spoil  them. 

The  next  morning,  the  boy  noticed  stains 


THE  BOY  OF  CADORE  ii 

on  the  stone  walk  made  by  flowers  crushed 
there  the  day  before.  They  were  bright 
and  fresh  as  if  painted,  and  it  put  an  idea 
into  his  head.  He  did  not  speak  of  it,  how- 
ever, although  it  was  on  his  mind  so  much 
that,  when  the  gaily  decked  villagers  danced 
on  the  green,  he  did  not  see  them,  but,  as 
soon  as  a  chance  came,  he  crept  from  the 
revelers  and  went  out  into  the  meadows. 

Catarina  saw  him  go,  and  wondered  what 
took  him  from  the  merriment.  Her  curi- 
osity was  greater  than  her  desire  for  fun, 
so  she  followed,  and  overtook  him  just 
as  he  reached  a  hillside  aglow  with  blos- 
soms. 

"What  are  you  doing,  Tiziano?"  she 
called. 

The  boy  looked  up  as  if  doubtful  whether 
to  tell  or  not.  But  he  knew  his  sister  loved 
him  even  though  she  did  criticize  his  dream- 
ing, and  that  she  would  keep  his  secret. 

'T  am  going  to  paint  a  picture,"  he  an- 
swered. 

For  a  minute  she  stood  and  stared.  Then, 
thinking  he  was  teasing,  she  retorted:  "Of 
course  you  are,  without  any  paints !" 


12  BOYHOOD  STORIES 

But  his  earnest  face  told  he  was  not  joking. 

"I  shall  use  blossoms,"  he  continued,  with 
a  wonderful  light  in  his  eyes.  ''See,  all  the 
colors  are  here,  and  I  have  found  that  they 
will  stain.  I  saw  where  they  did  it  on  the 
stone  walk." 

Catarina  was  not  a  dreamer  like  her 
brother,  and  never  saw  pictures  where 
others  found  only  a  bit  of  color,  but  she  be- 
lieved that  what  he  proposed  to  do  was  not 
impossible,  for  she  too  had  noticed  the  stains 
on  the  stone.  And  she  began  to  think  that 
he  must  be  a  very  bright  lad,  for  no  ordinary 
one  would  have  thought  of  it,  and  that  per- 
haps his  wanting  to  go  to  Venice  was  not  a 
wild  idea  after  all.  If  it  was  a  splendid 
thing  for  Salvator,  the  miller's  son,  to  be- 
come a  sculptor,  would  it  not  be  more  splen- 
did for  Tiziano  to  paint  pictures,  and  might 
not  Cadore  be  proud  of  him  too?  She  had 
heard  the  padrone  say  that  no  undertaking 
that  fills  the  heart  is  impossible  to  one  who 
has  patience  and  courage  and  persistence, 
and  that  help  always  comes  to  those  who  try 
to  help  themselves.  So  she  decided  to  help 
Tiziano,  even  though  it  was  only  in  the  keep- 


THE  BOY  OF  CADORE  13 

ing  of  his  secret  and  the  gathering  of  mate- 
rials for  the  work. 

So  into  the  fragrant  patches  they  went 
and  began  collecting  blossoms  of  every  hue 
— reds,  pinks,  blues,  and  purples  such  as  sun- 
set painted  on  the  mountains,  and  warm  yel- 
lows and  lavenders  that  the  boy  saw  in  the 
pictures  of  his  fancy.  Then  they  hurried  to 
an  old  stone  house  that  stood  on  land  owned 
by  their  father.  It  was  a  vacant  house,  sel- 
dom visited  by  the  family,  and  never  by  the 
villagers,  and  there,  where  he  would  be  safe 
from  molestation,  he  was  to  paint  the  picture 
that  they  hoped  would  be  the  means  of  taking 
him  to  Venice. 

Catarina  wanted  to  stay  and  watch  the 
work,  but  Tiziano  objected. 

"I  don't  want  even  you  to  see  it  until  it  is 
finished,  because  at  first  it  will  not  seem  like 
a  picture." 

So  she  went  away  and  left  him  outlining 
with  a  bit  of  charcoal  on  the  wall. 

For  many  days  afterward,  whenever  he 
could  steal  away  without  being  noticed,  he 
worked  with  his  flower  paints.  Catarina 
went  over  the  meadows  on  feet  that  seemed 


14  BOYHOOD  STORIES 

to  be  winged,  always  watching  that  none  of 
the  villagers  saw  her  put  the  blossoms  in  at 
the  window  near  which  her  brother  worked. 
So,  while  each  petal  made  only  a  tiny  stain, 
and  the  boy  painted  with  the  rapidity  of  one 
inspired,  he  not  once  needed  to  stop  for  ma- 
terials. 

Little  by  little  the  picture  grew  beneath 
the  magic  of  his  touch,  and  he  and  Catarina 
kept  the  secret  well.  Only  the  flocks  pas- 
turing on  the  fragrant  uplands  went  near 
the  deserted  house,  so  no  one  knew  that  a 
boy  was  at  work  there  who  was  destined  to 
win  glory  for  Italy.  Little  did  the  villagers 
dream,  as  Catarina  skipped  over  the  mead- 
ows, that  the  blossoms  she  gathered  were 
being  put  to  an  immortal  use. 

One  evening,  when  the  sun  was  dipping 
behind  the  peaks  and  the  merry  voices  of 
shepherds  homeward  bound  with  their  flocks 
sounded  down  from  the  heights,  Tiziano 
stepped  to  the  door  of  the  house  and  called 
to  his  sister  outside. 

"It  is  finished,  Catarina,  and  is  the  very 
best  that  I  can  do !" 

She  went  dancing  in,  filled  with  joy  that 


THE  BOY  OF  C ADORE  17 

the  task  was  done;  but  when  she  stood  in 
front  of  the  picture,  the  merriment  went  out 
of  her  face,  and  she  spoke  in  tones  of  rever- 
ence : 

"Oh,  Tiziano,  a  madonna !" 

"Yes,"  he  agreed.  "A  madonna  and  child, 
with  a  boy  Hke  me  offering  a  gift.  It  is  what 
was  in  my  heart,  Catarina." 

For  some  minutes  she  stood  there  forget- 
ting everything  else  in  the  beauty  of  the 
fresco.  Then,  thinking  of  what  it  would 
mean  to  her  brother  when  the  villagers  knew 
he  had  done  such  a  wonderful  thing,  she 
started  out  to  spread  the  news. 

"Come  and  see!"  she  called  to  Luigi,  the 
cobbler,  as  she  hurried  past  the  door  where 
he  was  sorting  his  leather.  "Tiziano  has 
painted  a  madonna  on  the  walls  of  the  old 
stone  house." 

Word  travels  fast  when  it  goes  by  the 
tongues  of  villagers,  and  soon  a  group  of 
folk  moved  toward  the  building  where  the 
lad  waited.  His  father,  coming  down  from 
a  day's  hunting  in  the  mountains,  saw  them 
go,  and  followed,  wondering  what  was  the 
matter.     But  by  the  time  he  reached  the 


i8  BOYHOOD  STORIES 

place,  such  a  crowd  had  gathered  that  he 
could  not  see  the  fresco. 

Murmurs  of  "How  did  he  do  it !"  "Where 
did  he  get  his  paints  ?"  rose  on  all  sides,  and 
every  one  was  so  excited  that  the  father 
could  not  find  out  why  they  were  there. 
Then  he  heard  Tiziano's  voice:  'T  did  it 
with  flowers  from  the  hillsides.  Catarina 
gathered  them  while  I  worked." 

Exclamations  of  amazement  followed,  and 
the  village  priest,  the  good  padrone,  spoke 
reverently:  "With  the  juices  of  flowers! 
II  Divino  Tiziano!" 

Antonio  Vecelli  looked  about  him  as  if 
dazed,  for  he  could  not  believe  what  he 
heard. 

"Am  I  mad,"  he  asked  a  villager  who  was 
standing  close  by,  "or  did  the  padrone  call 
my  Tiziano  'the  divine'  ?" 

"No,"  came  the  answer.  "You  are  not 
mad." 

And  when  they  told  him  the  story,  and  the 
crowd  stepped  back  that  he  might  see,  he, 
too,  thought  it  a  wonderful  thing. 

Whether  or  not  Salvator,  the  miller's  son, 
went  to  the  city  to  study  sculpture,  no  one 


THE  BOY  OF  CADORE  19 

knows.  But  Tizlano  did  go,  and  the  boy 
of  Cadore  became  the  marvel  of  Venice. 
There,  guided  by  the  master  hand  of  BeUini, 
he  began  plying  the  brushes  that  were  busy 
for  almost  eighty  years,  painting  pictures 
whose  glorious  coloring  has  never  been 
equaled,  and  proving  to  the  mountain  folk 
that  it  is  n't  bad,  after  all,  to  be  a  dreamer, 
for  dreams  combined  with  works  do  marvel- 
ous things. 

That  was  back  in  the  olden  days,  before 
Columbus  sailed  westward.  But  if  the 
father,  who  thought  he  had  gone  mad  when 
the  village  priest  spoke  his  boy's  name  as 
reverently  as  he  would  a  saint's,  could  come 
again  to  the  valley  of  flowers  in  the  Italian 
highlands,  he  would  hear  the  selfsame  words 
that  were  used  that  twilight  time  in  speaking 
of  his  lad. 

"Ecco !"  the  villagers  say,  as  they  point  to 
a  noble  statue  that  looks  out  toward  the 
meadows  in  which  Catarina  gathered  blos- 
soms for  her  brother,  "II  Divino  Tiziano. — 
See,  the  divine  Titian !" 

And  by  that  name  the  world  knows  him  to 
this  very  day. 


WHEN  MOZART  RACED  WITH 
MARIE  ANTOINETTE 


II 


WHEN  MOZART  RACED  WITH  MARIE 
ANTOINETTE 

HE  was  the  child  of  a  poor  musician,  and 
she  was  an  Austrian  archduchess, 
yet  they  played  as  happily  in  the  stately  old 
garden  as  if  there  were  no  such  thing  in  the 
world  as  high  or  low  degree.  The  fountains 
around  the  grotto  plashed  and  murmured, 
their  falling  waters  meeting  below  the  ter- 
races in  a  stream  that  went  singing  away 
into  the  pines  beyond ;  while  from  a  pond  half 
hidden  in  a  riot  of  reeds  and  rushes,  a 
speckled  trout  or  silver-striped  bass  leaped 
up  into  the  sunlight. 

Wolfgang  felt  as  if  he  had  come  to  para- 
dise, and  it  was  not  strange.  The  only  gar- 
den in  which  he  had  ever  played  was  the  one 
at  his  home  in  Salzburg,  where  there  was 
just  a  plot  of  grass  and  gnarled  oak-tree, 
with  a  clump  of  yellow  jasmine  dipping  over 

23 


24  BOYHOOD  STORIES 

the  old  stone  wall.  A  poor  little  garden,  and 
suffering  sometimes  for  the  care  his  father 
and  mother  were  both  too  busy  to  give  it, 
while  the  great  park  at  Schonbrunn,  with  its 
myriad  singing-birds  and  acres  and  acres  of 
grove  and  lawn,  was  the  loveliest  spot  in  all 
of  lovely  Austria. 

"See!"  he  exclaimed,  pointing  to  where  a 
fountain  threw  out  a  veil  of  iridescent  spray. 
"There  is  a  rainbow  there,  just  like  the  one 
we  see  in  the  sky  after  a  shower." 

Marie  Antoinette  nodded.  To  her  the 
gleaming  colors  in  the  spray  were  an  every- 
day sight. 

"Of  course,"  she  replied;  "there  is  always 
a  rainbow  where  a  fountain  plays.  It  is 
great  fun  to  run  through  the  spray.  Come, 
I  '11  beat  you  to  the  aspen-tree  yonder." 

And  away  they  went,  Marie's  yellow  curls 
flying,  and  merriment  dancing  in  her  wide, 
blue  eyes.  For  a  minute,  Wolfgang  kept 
even  with  her.  But  he  was  younger  and  less 
accustomed  to  exercise,  for  while  the  royal 
child  spent  the  entire  summer  romping  in  the 
open,  he  sat  at  piano  or  harp  practising  for 
concerts  that  were  a  large  source  of  the  f am- 


Away   they   went,    Marie's   yellow   curls   llying 


WHEN  MOZART  RACED         27 

ily  income.  His  father  was  conductor  of 
the  court  orchestra  at  Salzburg,  and  orches- 
tra directors  were  paid  little  in  those  days,  so 
Wolfgang  and  his  sister  Marianne,  both  of 
whom  played  wonderfully  well,  gave  exhibi- 
tions of  their  skill,  sometimes  making  as 
much  on  one  of  these  occasions  as  did  the 
elder  Mozart  in  a  month.  But  it  meant 
many  hours  of  practising,  and  bodies  weaker 
than  those  of  children  who  were  free  to  romp 
and  run.  So  Wolfgang  began  to  fall  be- 
hind, and  Marie  reached  the  goal  several 
yards  ahead  of  him. 

"Oh!"  she  cried  merrily.  "I  beat  you, 
Wolfgang  Mozart !  I  beat  you,  and  I  am  a 
girl!" 

Wolfgang  bit  his  lip.  It  was  bad  enough 
to  be  vanquished  by  a  girl  without  being 
taunted  about  it,  and  he  felt  like  running 
away  and  hiding.  But  it  was  only  for  a 
minute.  Then  he  realized  that  Marie  had 
not  meant  to  hurt  him,  for  he  knew  her  kind 
heart,  and  had  not  forgotten  that,  a  few 
nights  before,  when  he  slipped  and  fell  on  the 
polished  floor  of  the  palace,  instead  of  laugh- 
ing with  the  others,  she  ran  to  help  him  up. 


28  BOYHOOD  STORIES 

So  what  did  it  matter  if  she  did  boast  about 
winning?  She  was  big-hearted,  and  the 
pleasantest  playmate  he  had  ever  had. 

"Yes,  Your  Highness,  you  beat  me  at  run- 
ning," he  answered,  "but  there  is  one  kind 
of  race  in  which  you  cannot." 

Marie  was  alert  with  interest. 

"What  is  it?"  she  asked. 

"On  the  harp.  You  may  play  and  I  will 
play,  and  we  will  ask  the  Countess  of  Brand- 
weiss  who  does  best." 

The  little  duchess  clapped  her  hands.  She 
was  a  fun-loving  child,  and  always  ready  for 
a  new  form  of  sport. 

"It  will  be  splendid!"  she  cried.  "And  if 
you  win,  you  may  have  my  silver  cross.  But 
we  must  wait  until  to-morrow,  for  Mother 
will  be  out  from  Vienna  then,  and  she  will  be 
a  better  judge  than  the  Brandweiss.  Let  us 
go  and  practise  now,  so  each  one  can  do  his 
best." 

"But,  Your  Highness,"  came  a  voice  from 
among  the  trees,  "do  not  forget  that  you 
are  the  daughter  of  an  empress." 

It  was  the  Countess  of  Brandweiss  who 
spoke,  and  Marie  Antoinette  shrugged  her 


WHEN  MOZART  RACED         29 

shoulders,  for  she  knew  very  well  what  her 
governess  meant. 

Wolfgang  was  a  boy  of  no  rank,  and  but 
for  the  fact  that  Maria  Theresa  was  a  tender 
mother  as  well  as  a  great  empress,  would  not 
have  been  at  Schonbrunn.  But  mothers 
think  of  the  happiness  of  their  children,  and 
sometimes  royal  ones  allow  what  queens 
alone  would  not. 

So  it  happened  that,  when  the  Mozart  chil- 
dren, who  were  on  a  concert  tour  with  their 
father,  played  before  the  court  at  Vienna, 
and  Marie  Antoinette  took  a  great  fancy  to 
the  delicate-faced  boy,  the  empress  asked  the 
musician  to  let  his  son  spend  a  few  days  at 
Schonbrunn  as  the  playmate  of  her  daughter. 
It  was  an  unusual  honor  for  a  lad  of  the  peo- 
ple, and  the  Countess  of  Brandweiss  was  not 
at  all  sure  that  it  was  wise.  That  is  why  she 
objected  to  the  contest.  It  seemed  like  put- 
ting them  on  an  equality.  But  Marie  An- 
toinette was  too  impulsive  and  kind  to  think 
much  about  such  things,  and  reasoned  that 
her  mother  intended  them  to  play  as  they 
wished,  or  she  would  not  have  invited  Wolf- 
gang to  Schonbrunn. 


30  BOYHOOD  STORIES 

So  they  went  toward  the  palace  in  high 
glee,  the  lad  very  sure  of  winning,  and  Marie 
almost  as  sure,  for  she  had  had  music  lessons 
ever  since  her  fingers  were  strong  enough  to 
strum  the  strings,  and  one  of  the  things  she 
could  do  exceedingly  well  was  to  play  on  the 
harp.  So  both  went  to  their  practising,  and 
by  the  time  that  was  done,  INIarie  had  a 
French  lesson  with  her  governess,  and  Wolf- 
gang spent  the  remainder  of  the  afternoon  in 
the  park  alone. 

The  next  morning,  every  one  about  the 
palace  was  excited.  The  empress  was  com- 
ing early  from  Vienna,  and  her  apartments 
always  had  to  be  decorated  with  flowers  be- 
fore her  arrival.  Marie  and  Wolfgang  flew 
in  and  out  among  the  workers,  being  really 
very  much  in  the  way,  yet  imagining  they 
were  helping.  The  young  duchess  was  radi- 
antly happy,  and  danced  and  sang.  Maria 
Theresa  was  one  of  the  world's  greatest 
rulers,  and  affairs  of  state  kept  her  so  busy 
that  she  saw  very  little  of  her  children, 
especially  during  the  summer,  when  they 
were  at  Schonbrunn,  away  from  the  heat  and 
dust  of  the  city.     Throughout  that  time,  she 


WHEN  MOZART  RACED         31 

visited  them  only  once  a  week,  and  by  Marie 
Antoinette,  who  thought  her  mother  the 
loveHest  woman  in  the  world,  the  rare  but 
joyous  occasions  upon  which  they  were  to- 
gether were  delightfully  anticipated  and  joy- 
ously remembered.  So  it  was  not  strange 
that  she  wanted  a  hand  in  beautifying  the 
palace  for  the  reception  of  its  loved  mistress. 

A  trumpet  call  from  the  warder  at  the 
outer  gate  announced  the  arrival  of  the  em- 
press, and  the  Countess  of  Brandweiss  led 
Marie  and  her  sister,  the  Archduchess  Caro- 
line, into  the  great  hall  to  pay  tribute  to  the 
royal  mother.  Wolfgang  stayed  behind 
with  the  attendants,  for  the  strict  etiquette 
of  the  Austrian  court  did  not  permit  him  to 
be  present  on  such  an  occasion.  He  watched 
Maria  Theresa  embrace  her  daughters  as 
lovingly  as  any  mother  who  had  never  worn 
a  crown,  and  thought,  with  Marie  Antoi- 
nette, that  she  was  the  most  beautiful  woman 
in  the  world.  She  was  so  big,  and  fair,  and 
splendidly  handsome,  and  the  mother-love 
gleamed  tenderly  in  her  clear,  blue  eyes. 

After  the  greetings  were  over,  she  moved 
toward  her  apartments,  and,  seeing  Wolf- 


32  BOYHOOD  STORIES 

gang  by  the  way,  stopped  and  kissed  him. 
Then  all  followed  her  to  her  reception-room, 
and  Marie  told  of  the  race. 

"But  Wolfgang  Mozart  says  he  can  beat 
me  on  the  harp,"  she  continued,  "so  we  are 
going  to  find  out.  Your  Majesty  and  Caro- 
line and  the  Brandweiss  shall  be  judges." 

Maria  Theresa  smiled. 

"It  must  be  soon,  then,"  she  said,  "for  at 
eleven  Baron  Kaunitz  comes  to  talk  over 
some  important  matters." 

"Oh!"  exclaimed  Marie,  petulantly;  "it  is 
always  Kaunitz  who  breaks  in  on  our  good 
times !  I  wish  he  would  go  so  far  away  that 
it  would  take  him  a  year  to  get  back." 

For  a  minute,  Maria  Theresa  looked  in 
amazement  at  her  daughter.  Then  she 
spoke  reprovingly,  but  gently : 

"My  child.  Baron  Kaunitz  is  Austria's 
great  prime  minister,  and  must  be  spoken  of 
with  respect  by  the  daughter  of  Austria's 
empress." 

The  little  duchess  hung  her  head.  She 
was  not  rude  at  heart,  but  just  self-willed, 
and  fond  of  having  things  go  to  suit  her. 

"I  am  sorry,  Mother!"  she  cried,  as  she 


WHEN  MOZART  RACED         33 

flung  her  arms  around  the  empress's  neck. 
"I  know  he  is  good  and  great,  but  why  does 
he  take  you  from  me  so  often  ?" 

''Because  pubhc  affairs  demand  it,"  the 
mother  said,  as  she  stroked  the  sunny  curls, 
''and  not  because  he  is  unkind.  You  must 
not  fret  about  it,  for  princesses  must  con- 
sider many  things  besides  their  own  desires. 
Let  us  be  happy  now,  and  not  waste  time 
with  regrets.  We  will  go  to  the  hill  above 
here — my  favorite  spot  of  all  Schonbrunn, 
Then  we  shall  see  who  plays  best.  Brand- 
weiss,  order  the  harp  to  be  taken  out,  please." 

The  governess  left  the  room  to  carry  out 
her  instructions,  and  Maria  Theresa  and  the 
children  went  into  the  park.  The  wealth  of 
flowers  threw  out  mingled  perfumes,  and  as 
they  strolled  along  the  shaded  walks,  among 
rare  trees  and  by  plashing  fountains  and  stat- 
ues, every  one  of  which  was  the  triumph  of 
some  great  artist,  Maria  Theresa  laughed 
and  jested,  stopping  now  to  pick  a  flower  or 
to  glance  over  the  housetops  of  Vienna  to  the 
Danube  and  the  hills  of  the  Wienerwald. 

It  was  good  to  be  free  from  public  affairs 
for  an  hour — free,  just  like  any  ordinary 


34  BOYHOOD  STORIES 

mother,  to  stroll  with  her  children  and  talk 
about  books,  and  games,  and  pets,  instead  of 
puzzling  over  treaties  with  Frederick  the 
Great,  and  questions  of  international  friend- 
ship. And,  as  Wolfgang  watched  her  stoop 
to  look  at  a  beetle  or  to  crown  Marie  An- 
toinette with  a  daisy  chain  or  laurel  garland, 
he  could  hardly  believe  that  this  laughing 
woman  was  the  stately  ruler  who  presided 
over  the  destinies  of  the  great  Austrian  land. 

They  lingered  awhile  at  the  zoological  gar- 
den, and  then  went  on  past  the  labyrinth  and 
the  Neptune  fountain  to  the  eminence  where 
now  stands  the  Gloriette.  A  pretty  rustic 
lodge  crowned  it  in  those  days,  and  Maria 
Theresa  loved  the  spot  and  spent  many  hours 
there. 

Johann  Michael,  one  of  the  house  serv- 
ants, arrived  just  as  they  did,  and  set  the 
harp  in  its  place.  Then  the  Brandweiss 
came,  and  the  empress  gave  the  word  for  the 
contest  to  begin. 

''You  play,  Maria  Antoinetta,"  she  said 
using  the  affectionate  German  name  by 
which  the  little  archduchess  was  called  until 
negotiations  were  under  way  for  her  French 


WHEN  MOZART  RACED         37 

marriage.  For  no  matter  how  gracious  the 
mother  might  be  to  the  musician's  child,  the 
Empress  of  Austria  must  observe  the  rules 
of  court  etiquette,  one  of  which  was  that 
princesses  must  always  take  precedence  over 
those  of  lower  rank. 

The  girl  began,  and  wonderfully  well  she 
played.  No  one  knew  it  better  than  Wolf- 
gang, and  as  her  white  fingers  danced  along 
the  strings,  he  listened  in  real  admiration, 
while  Maria  Theresa  thought  with  pride  that 
few  of  her  age  could  do  as  well.  When  she 
finished,  the  judges  and  the  boy  who  was  her 
competitor  broke  into  genuine  applause,  and 
the  Brandweiss  smiled  with  gratification  at 
her  charge,  very  sure  that,  although  Wolf- 
gang had  often  played  in  public,  he  could  not 
do  as  well.  The  countess  had  very  decided 
opinions  about  things,  and  was  particularly 
strong  in  her  belief  that  low-born  children 
ought  not  to  be  allowed  to  vie  with  princesses 
of  the  blood  royal. 

"Now,  Master  Mozart,"  the  Archduchess 
Caroline  said,  "you  take  the  harp,  and  see  if 
you  can  do  better.'' 

Wolfgang  moved  to  the  instrument  and 

87791 


38  BOYHOOD  STORIES 

swept  his  fingers  across  the  strings.  First 
came  a  few  broken  chords,  and  then  an  ex- 
quisite strain  of  melody,  a  folk-song  of  old 
Austria  still  to  be  heard  at  eventide  in  the 
fields  around  Salzburg,  as  the  peasants  come 
in  from  their  toiling.  Caroline  sat  with 
clasped  hands  and  gleaming  eyes.  She  had 
listened  to  that  ballad  many  times,  but  never 
had  it  seemed  so  beautiful.  The  empress, 
very  still,  looked  far  out  across  the  sweep  of 
hill  and  plain  that  skirted  the  river,  her  face 
wonderfully  tender  as  she  listened  to  the 
gifted  child.  Even  the  punctilious  countess 
forgot  her  prejudices,  and  looked  at  the  boy 
with  misty  eyes,  for  the  melody  took  her  back 
to  the  far-off  time  when  as  a  child  on  an  old 
estate  at  Salzburg  she  had  often  sat  with  her 
mother  and  listened  to  peasant  songs  sweet- 
ening the  twilight.  Again  she  saw  the  flow- 
ers and  trees  of  the  well-remembered  park, 
the  hunting  lodge  and  the  copsewood  just  be- 
yond, and  heard  the  voice  of  her  father,  who 
had  slept  for  years  among  Austria's  honored 
dead. 

But  Wolfgang  thought  only  of  the  music, 
and  played  as  seldom  a  child  has  played, 


WHEN  MOZART  RACED         39 

something  stronger  and  finer  than  his  will 
guiding  his  sensitive  fingers  along  the 
strings. 

The  melody  died  away,  and  he  turned  to 
his  listeners  with  a  question  in  his  eyes.  He 
was  so  eager  to  win,  yet  he  knew  the  young 
archduchess  had  done  remarkably  well. 

But  Marie  Antoinette  did  not  wait  for  the 
word  of  the  judges.  She  ran  to  him  in  her 
big-hearted,  impulsive  way,  and  pinned  the 
cross  on  his  coat. 

*'You  have  beaten  me,"  she  said,  "and  the 
cross  is  yours !  You  have  won  it,  Wolfgang, 
for  I  cannot  play  half  as  well  as  that!" 

An  attendant  appeared  just  then  and 
saluted  the  empress. 

"Your  Majesty,"  he  announced,  "his  ex- 
cellency, the  Baron  Kaunitz  awaits  your 
commands  at  the  palace." 

But  Maria  Theresa,  mighty  ruler  of  the 
Austrian  land,  seemed  not  to  hear.  She  had 
forgotten  all  about  affairs  of  state,  and  sat 
as  one  in  a  dream,  charmed  by  the  magical 
music  of  Mozart,  as  men  and  women  are  still 
charmed  by  it  to-day. 


THE  TOMBOY  FROM  BORDEAUX 


Ill 

THE  TOMBOY  FROM  BORDEAUX 

YOU  think  you  have  a  daughter,  my  So- 
phia, but  you  are  mistaken,  for  Rosalie 
is  not  a  girl.  She  is  just  a  boy  in  petti- 
coats !" 

Madame  Bonheur  looked  up  from  her 
spinning  with  a  smile  that  was  tinged  with 
sadness,  for  she  knew  her  father  spoke  the 
truth,  and  it  grieved  her.  But  a  musical 
laugh  floated  into  the  room  just  then,  and  her 
eyes  turned  lovingly  toward  the  girl  who  was 
romping  under  the  chestnut-trees. 

'Tt  seems  that  way,"  she  replied,  ''and  I 
often  wish  she  were  different.  But  she  has 
a  clear  mind  and  a  good  heart,  and  I  think 
will  come  out  all  right." 

"Aye,  aye,  I  hope  so,"  the  old  man  said,  as 
he  walked  to  the  door  and  looked  out  at  the 
sky  against  whose  midsummer  blue  were 
painted  the  masts  of  a  hundred  ships.     The 

43 


44  BOYHOOD  STORIES 

Bonheurs  lived  not  far  from  the  Bordeaux 
docks,  and  between  the  trees  might  always 
be  had  a  glimpse  of  the  vessels  anchored 
there;  so  he  stood  with  a  pleasant  expression 
on  his  wrinkled  face,  listening  to  the  calls  of 
the  men  who  were  working  among  the  boats. 

Madame  Bonheur  went  on  with  her  house- 
hold tasks,  now  turning  from  the  spinning 
to  tend  the  stew  that  simmered  over  the  char- 
coal fire,  or  to  turn  the  square  of  linen  bleach- 
ing just  outside  the  window,  and  wondering 
much,  as  she  threw  the  creamy  tow  over  the 
spindle,  what  made  her  Rosalie  so  different 
from  other  girls,  always  wanting  to  romp 
with  boys  instead  of  doing  a  stint  of  embroi- 
dery as  a  French  maiden  should. 

But  out  in  the  pleasant  garden  Rosalie  was 
having  a  beautiful  time.  No  thought  of 
anything  but  the  game  of  soldier  they  were 
playing  was  in  her  mind,  for  she  was  captain, 
and  the  fighters  who  followed  her  were  her 
brother  Auguste  and  a  group  of  neighbor- 
hood children,  charging  and  retreating 
against  a  fort — which  was  n't  a  fort  at  all, 
but  just  a  stone  wall  over  which  pale  pink 
roses  tumbled  in  a  mass  of  bloom.     They  sal- 


The  grandfather   stood  by   the  stone  gate  calling  good-by   as  they 
drove    away 


TOMBOY  FROM  BORDEAUX    47 

lied  and  skirmished  as  if  each  one  were  a 
chevaHer  of  France,  and  of  course  there  was 
victory  for  the  assaulting  army.  For  no 
death-dealing  guns  thundered  from  that 
rampart,  and  it  was  easy  to  become  a  general 
or  even  a  field-marshal  through  victories 
gained  so  quickly  and  easily.  Perhaps  many 
a  battle  might  have  been  waged  in  that  one 
short  afternoon,  but  a  call  from  the  door  sent 
military  tactics  out  of  the  young  command- 
er's head.  The  neighborhood  children  scur- 
ried homeward,  and  with  Auguste  at  her 
heels  she  scampered  toward  the  house,  leav- 
ing the  wall  and  its  roses  to  sleep  in  the  sun- 
shine as  before. 

"Your  father  is  here,  and  he  has  some- 
thing to  tell  you,"  the  mother  announced  as 
they  ran  into  the  low-ceiled  room.  "See  if 
you  can  guess  what  it  is." 

And  the  two  climbed  up  on  his  chair,  beg- 
ging to  be  told  all  about  it. 

"I  know!"  Auguste  exclaimed,  as  he 
clapped  his  small  brown  hands.  "You  're  go- 
ing to  take  us  to  the  docks  to  see  the  boats." 

He  was  always  thinking  of  the  harbor  and 
of  the  sturdy  seamen  who  sang  as  they  toiled 


48  BOYHOOD  STORIES 

there,  and  could  imagine  nothing  more  de- 
lightful than  an  hour  along  the  quays. 
But  Rosalie  shook  her  head. 
She  loved  animals  as  few  children  loved 
them,  and  was  not,  like  Auguste,  wild  about 
the  boats  and  the  sailors. 

"Of  course  not!"  she  said  merrily.  ''I 
think  he  means  to  get  us  another  dog,  or 
maybe  a  goat." 

At  which  the  father  and  mother  both 
laughed. 

''Neither  of  you  has  guessed  rightly,"  the 
man  spoke  pleasantly.  ''I  am  going  to  Paris, 
and  after  a  while  will  send  for  you,  and  we 
shall  all  be  Parisians." 

Auguste  gave  a  scream  of  delight. 

''Oh,  I  am  so  glad !"  he  cried.  "There  are 
hundreds  of  soldiers  in  Paris,  and  Emile,  the 
tailor's  son,  told  me  that  sometimes  the  river 
there  is  white  with  boats.  I  wish  we  might 
go  to-day." 

Rosalie  did  not  seem  so  eager  about  it. 
Paris  was  very  large,  and  many  people  there 
had  no  yards  at  all.  There  might  not  be 
room  for  the  dogs  and  cats  and  pets  she  liked 
so  much,  and  it  seemed  better  to  stay  in  Bor- 


TOMBOY  FROM  BORDEAUX    49 

deaux.  But  if  the  city  was  to  be  their  home, 
it  would  be  well  to  learn  something  more 
about  it.  So  she  questioned  in  an  earnest 
voice,  "May  I  take  my  rabbits  and  Smoke 
and  the  five  little  cats?" 

The  mother  smiled  and  shook  her  head. 

"No,  dear.  But  so  many  wonderful 
things  are  in  the  city  that  it  will  seem  very 
fine  to  be  there  even  without  your  pets." 

Rosalie  thought  her  mother  very  wise,  and 
if  she  said  a  thing  it  must  be  so.  Perhaps  it 
would  not  be  bad  in  Paris,  after  all.  So  she 
began  to  be  quite  excited  about  it,  and 
watched  eagerly  while  the  small  green  trunk 
was  packed.  It  seemed  almost  like  a  picnic, 
for  she  was  too  young  to  understand  how 
hard  it  was  for  her  father  to  leave  Bordeaux, 
and  that  he  was  going  away  only  because  his 
income  as  a  teacher  in  the  southern  town 
would  not  reach  to  cover  all  their  needs, 
while  in  the  city  there  was  a  chance  of  mak- 
ing more  money. 

Next  day,  they  stood  under  the  chestnut- 
trees  and  watched  him  go  down  the  road  and 
out  of  sight,  the  mother  and  Pepe,  the  grand- 
father, with  tearful  eyes,  for  they  realized 


50  BOYHOOD  STORIES 

what  struggle  the  coming  days  might  hold 
for  him.  But  Rosalie  and  Auguste  were 
smiling.  Their  thoughts  were  that,  some 
day,  they,  too,  would  drive  away  in  the  post- 
chaise  to  see  the  wonders  of  Paris,  and  per- 
haps, if  the  mother  had  not  put  them  to  other 
things,  would  have  talked  about  it  the  rest  of 
the  day.  But  there  were  lessons  to  be  pre- 
pared. So  they  sat  down  under  the  trees 
with  their  reading-books.  But  Rosalie 
did  n't  study  long.  Almost  before  she  real- 
ized what  she  was  doing,  she  took  out  her 
slate  and  began  to  draw. 

Grandfather  Bonheur  walked  through  the 
garden  a  little  later,  and  by  that  time  old 
Smoke,  the  gray  house-cat,  was  copied  on  the 
red-framed  slate. 

''Ah,  lass!"  he  exclaimed,  as  he  looked  at 
it.  "If  you  put  in  the  time  drawing  when 
you  should  be  at  your  lessons,  you  will  grow 
up  an  ignoramus." 

Rosalie  caught  his  hand  with  an  impulsive 
caress. 

"1  forgot,  Pepe!"  she  said.     "I  '11  study." 

And  she  turned  again  to  her  book  while  the 
old  man  walked  on. 


TOMBOY  FROM  BORDEAUX    51 

''The  maid  surely  has  a  gift  when  it  comes 
to  using  her  pencil,"  he  murmured  as  he 
went;  "and  if  she  'd  get  her  lessons  as  well 
as  she  draws,  she  'd  amount  to  something 
some  day." 

For  little  did  he  dream  that  her  drawing 
was  destined  to  cast  undying  honor  on  the 
Bonheur  name. 

A  year  passed,  and  the  father  sent  for 
them  to  come  to  Paris.  Then  what  excite- 
ment there  was  in  the  old  house !  Pepe,  the 
grandfather,  felt  that  he  was  too  old  to  make 
new  friends  and  learn  city  ways,  so  he  de- 
cided to  stay  behind  with  some  relatives. 
But  he  helped  with  the  preparations,  and 
stood  by  the  stone  gate  calling  good-by  as 
they  drove  away.  Madame  Bonheur  could 
not  keep  back  the  tears  at  the  thought  of 
leaving  him,  and  the  chestnut-trees,  and  the 
harbor,  with  its  gray-masted  boats,  and  Ros- 
alie's lip  quivered  as  she  gave  old  Smoke  a 
farewell  hug.  But  Auguste  was  excited 
over  the  thought  of  the  new  life  that  was  to 
begin  for  them  in  the  city,  and  called  back 
gaily  in  answer  to  the  good-bys. 

'It  is  a  shabby  house,"  Raymond  Bonheur 


52  BOYHOOD  STORIES 

said  when  he  took  them  to  their  new  home ; 
'Very  dingy  and  dull-looking,  and  not  pretty 
like  the  one  in  Bordeaux.  But  we  must  stay 
here  until  I  get  to  earning  more.  Then  we 
can  move  to  better  quarters." 

Rosalie  agreed  with  him.  It  seemed  very 
cold  and  dreary  after  the  sunshine  and  clear 
skies  of  the  southland,  and  she  wanted  to  be 
back  in  the  old  harbor  town,  where  finches 
held  revel  in  the  chestnut-trees,  and  roses  ran 
riot  over  the  brown  w^all.  But  after  a  while 
the  strangeness  of  things  interested  her,  and 
she  forgot  her  homesickness. 

A  few  days  later,  the  father  announced 
that  he  had  a  chance  to  send  her  to  a  school- 
master. 

"His  name  is  Monsieur  Antin,"  he  ex- 
plained, "and  he  has  only  boys.  But  Rosalie 
gets  along  so  well  with  them,  that  he  says  he 
will  take  her,  and  it  will  be  good  for  her  to  be 
with  Auguste." 

Rosalie  was  delighted. 

"I  like  that !"  she  said.  "Boys'  games  just 
suit  me,  for  I  love  to  play  soldier  and  fight 
sham  battles." 

So  to  Monsieur  Antin's  school  she  went. 


TOMBOY  FROM  BORDEAUX     53 

and  joined  in  the  games  with  such  a  zest  that 
she  came  to  be  known  all  along  the  street  as 
"The  Tomboy  from  Bordeaux."  If  there 
was  a  sham  battle,  she  was  in  the  lead,  and, 
as  it  seemed  quite  silly  for  a  soldier  to  be 
called  Rosalie,  her  name  was  shortened  to 
Rosa,  by  which  she  was  known  from  that 
time  forth. 

Then  came  the  revolution  of  1830,  with 
guns  thundering  almost  at  the  Bonheur  door. 
The  Place  de  la  Bastille  was  not  far  away, 
and  while  it  was  being  stormed,  Rosa  nar- 
rowly escaped  being  the  victim  of  a  cannon 
discharge.  Troubled  days  followed,  and  the 
family  moved  to  a  smaller  and  cheaper  house, 
far  from  the  home  that  had  now  grown  very 
dear  to  them.  Attendance  at  Monsieur  An- 
tin's  school  ended,  and  Rosa's  only  playmates 
were  her  brothers,  Auguste  and  Isidore,  and 
a  little  girl  named  Natalie.  But  her  nick- 
name followed  to  the  new  home,  and  she  was 
still  known  as  "The  Tomboy  from  Bor- 
deaux." 

Several  years  passed,  and  she  was  now  a 
big  girl.  She  did  very  little  studying,  but  a 
great  deal  of  drawing  and  painting,  some- 


54  BOYHOOD  STORIES 

times  earning  a  few  sous  coloring  prints  for 
a  man  who  lived  near  by.  The  mother  had 
died,  and  Monsieur  Bonheur,  himself  a 
scholar,  could  not  bear  to  think  of  his  daugh- 
ter growing  up  in  ignorance.  So  once  more 
she  was  sent  to  school,  this  time  with  about  a 
hundred  girls,  to  Madame  Gilbert's  Institute, 
where  they  were  expected  to  become  digni- 
fied and  proper  young  ladies.  But  Rosa 
could  n't  be  dignified,  no  matter  how  hard 
she  tried.  Always  she  had  been  a  tomboy, 
and  if  the  old  grandfather  in  Bordeaux  could 
have  seen  her  now,  he  would  still  have  said 
that  she  was  just  a  boy  in  petticoats. 

Madame  Gilbert  was  very  dignified  and 
very  proper.  When  she  stood  up,  she  did  it 
in  just  the  right  manner,  and  when  she  sat 
down,  it  was  so  correctly  that  the  most  care- 
ful person  could  not  criticize.  Her  heart 
was  n't  quite  as  big  as  Rosa's,  and  every  ani- 
mal about  the  place  would  run  from  the  mis- 
tress at  the  call  of  the  dark-haired  tomboy. 
But  that  did  n't  seem  to  matter.  Her  mis- 
sion was  to  make  polished  and  proper  Pari- 
sians, and  she  had  little  patience  with  a  girl 
who   wanted  to  be   anything   else.     Even 


The  room  that  was  her  workshop  came  to  be  a  sort  of  Noah's  Ark 


TOMBOY  FROM  BORDEAUX     57 

Rosa's  love  of  animals  and  her  delight  in 
drawing  them  displeased  the  mistress,  who 
scolded  her  for  not  making  pictures  of  flow- 
ers, which  was  far  more  ladylike.  But  Rosa 
drew  the  things  that  were  in  her  heart,  and 
it  was  good  for  the  world  she  did.  Madame 
Gilbert,  however,  could  n't  understand  that, 
and  kept  wishing  for  a  chance  to  send  the 
tomboy  home. 

At  last  it  came. 

The  girls  were  all  out  in  the  garden,  and, 
as  usual,  Rosa  was  brimming  over  with  good 
nature. 

*'Let  's  have  a  sham  battle!"  she  called. 

And  immediately  they  were  organized  into 
a  company. 

Sticks  of  wood  made  splendid  sabers,  and 
as  the  young  commander  ordered  a  cavalry 
charge,  they  rushed  with  vim  toward  the 
rose  garden. 

But  the  battle  was  never  finished.  Ma- 
dame Gilbert's  shrill  voice  rang  out  just  then, 
and  Captain  Rosa  was  ignominiously  locked 
in  a  closet.  Such  an  indignity  was  unheard 
of  in  a  well-regulated  school,  and  the  next 
day  her  father  came  and  took  her  home,  hav- 


58  BOYHOOD  STORIES 

ing  given  up  all  hope  of  polishing  her  into  a 
proper  young  lady. 

But  he  remembered  her  mother's  words, 
''She  has  a  clear  mind  and  a  good  heart,  and 
must  come  out  all  right;"  and,  because  he 
knew  she  loved  drawing,  was  wise  enough  to 
let  her  work  at  it  all  she  pleased,  and  fitted 
up  a  room  for  her  studio.  Sometimes  she 
went  to  the  Louvre  to  study  the  masterpieces 
there,  for  every  gem  in  that  great  treasure- 
house  was  a  delight  to  her.  But  the  animal 
pictures  appealed  to  her  most  strongly,  and 
these  she  copied  with  wonderful  skill. 
Sometimes  on  Sunday,  with  her  father  and 
his  good  friend,  Justin  Mathieu,  the  famous 
sculptor,  she  went  far  into  the  country,  wan- 
dering off  wherever  she  saw  cattle  or  horses 
or  sheep.  They  seemed  to  sense  her  love  of 
them  and  came  near,  always  receiving  a 
warm  caress.  The  sculptor  recognized  her 
marvelous  skill  in  portraying  them,  and 
urged  her  father  to  let  her  have  as  many  pets 
as  she  could  keep.  So  the  room  that  was  her 
workshop  came  to  be  a  sort  of  Noah's  ark, 
where  rabbits,  tame  squirrels,  ducks,  and 
quail  held  revel,  and  canaries  and  finches  flew 


TOMBOY  FROM  BORDEAUX     59 

in  and  out.  Then  some  one  gave  her  a  goat, 
and,  with  her  dogs  and  cats,  she  had  a  real 
menagerie. 

But  still  she  was  the  tomboy.  She  loved 
games  as  well  as  she  loved  painting,  and  per- 
haps because  she  played  so  hard  is  one  reason 
why  she  painted  so  well. 

'T  want  to  study  other  animals,"  she  said 
one  day  to  her  father;  ''cattle,  instead  of 
just  the  horses  I  see  in  the  street  and  the  lit- 
tle creatures  I  have  here  at  home." 

And  Raymond  Bonheur  was  perplexed. 
One  does  not  see  cattle  in  city  streets,  and 
they  had  no  pennies  to  spare  to  pay  board  in 
the  country.  But  Rosa  found  a  way.  She 
went  where  the  animals  were  taken  that  were 
brought  to  Paris  for  the  markets,  and  here 
she  made  dozens  of  sketches  which  were 
afterwards  transferred  to  canvas.  Once  a 
circus  came  to  Paris,  and  when  the  owner 
heard  of  the  girl  who  painted  animals  so 
wonderfully,  he  gave  her  permission  to  work 
in  his  menagerie  as  long  as  it  stayed  in  the 
city,  and  there,  day  after  day,  she  sketched 
the  lions,  tigers,  and  other  creatures  of 
foreign  lands. 


6o  BOYHOOD  STORIES 

When  one  Is  busy,  the  time  seems  to  go  on 
wings,  and,  before  she  reahzed  it,  years  had 
passed,  and  her  work  was  known  far  and 
wide,  and  recognized  as  something  very  re- 
markable. Even  Landseer,  then  the  world's 
master-painter  of  animals,  could  not  portray 
them  in  a  more  lifelike  manner  than  the 
young  Frenchwoman.  They  seemed  ready 
to  step  from  her  canvases  and  move  about 
the  fields  and  roadsides,  for  she  put  love  into 
her  work,  and  infinite  patience  too.  Years 
were  spent  over  her  marvelous  "Horse 
Fair";  years,  too,  on  its  great  companion 
piece,  "Coming  from  the  Fair,"  and  every 
hour  of  the  time  was  richly  worth  while,  for 
they  will  gladden  the  hearts  of  beauty  lovers 
for  hundreds  of  years  to  come. 

The  old  studio  with  its  rabbits  and  birds 
and  goat  had  been  abandoned,  for  by  this 
time  Rosa's  work  was  earning  so  much 
money  that  she  could  afford  a  great  estate  in 
the  fresh,  green  country,  and  all  the  animals 
she  wanted.  So  in  the  forest  of  Fontaine- 
bleau  she  made  a  home  spot,  where  she  lived 
and  worked.     Her   fame  spread  to   every 


TOMBOY  FROM  BORDEAUX    6i 

land,  and  there  was  none  too  great  to  honor 
the  tomboy  from  Bordeaux. 

For  tomboy  she  was  still.  She  never  grew 
too  old  to  join  in  a  game  with  children,  or  too 
far  away  from  the  sham  battles  and  cavalry 
charges  of  her  youth  to  refuse  to  organize  a 
company.  The  girls  from  Madame  Gilbert's 
school  had  become  dignified  and  proper  Pa- 
risian dames,  who  dressed  beautifully  and 
drove  in  the  boulevards  as  dignified  ladies  do. 
But  nobody  ever  heard  of  them.  While, 
wherever  beauty  was  loved,  Rosa,  who  most 
of  the  time  wore  a  denim  jumper  and  short 
skirt,  was  known  as  a  wonder-worker. 

One  day  she  was  busy  over  a  sketch,  when 
her  companion  rushed  into  the  studio  in 
great  excitement,  exclaiming:  ''Madame,  the 
Empress  is  here!" 

Rosa  Bonheur  had  on  her  usual  working 
attire,  rather  a  queer  costume  in  which  to 
receive  the  Empress  of  France.  But  that 
mattered  little  to  beautiful  Eugenie.  She 
knew  of  the  glory  the  artist  was  winning  for 
her  land,  and  had  come  to  give  her  homage. 

'It  is  the  Cross  of  the  Legion  of  Honor," 


62  BOYHOOD  STORIES 

she  said  as  she  held  up  a  glittering  emblem. 
"You  have  won  it,  and  deserve  to  wear  it." 

Tears  came  into  Rosa's  dark  eyes.  She 
knew  that  was  the  highest  honor  that  could 
come  to  a  child  of  France,  and  that  the  great- 
est ambition  of  the  most  illustrious  men  of 
many  generations  had  been  to  win  that  guer- 
don. 

So  she  went  on,  trying  to  be  worthy  of  it, 
working  hard  and  being  happy  because  she 
was  leading  a  good  and  useful  life. 

And,  besides  putting  beauty  into  the  world, 
her  work  accomplished  other  big  things. 
Men  grew  kinder  to  animals  because  of  her 
paintings,  and  in  several  cities  they  led  to 
laws  being  passed  to  make  easier  the  lives  of 
dumb  creatures. 

So,  although  it  does  seem  strange  for  a  girl 
to  fight  sham  battles  and  lead  cavalry 
charges,  there  are  worse  things  in  the  world 
than  being  a  tomboy,  if  she  has  a  clear  mind 
and  a  good  heart,  like  Rosa  Bonheur. 


JACOPO,  THE  LITTLE  DYER 


IV 
JACOPO,  THE  LITTLE  DYER 

HE  was  a  handsome  lad,  strong-limbed 
and  sturdy,  and  although  dressed  in 
the  dun-colored  smock  worn  only  by  Vene- 
tian youths  of  low  degree,  was  as  happy  as 
if  his  father  had  been  one  of  the  Council  of 
Ten.  For  it  was  sunset  time ;  and  from  the 
balcony  of  the  dim  apartment  that  served  as 
the  family  living-room,  he  could  look  out  on 
the  canal,  flushed  then  with  glorified  light. 

A  girl  with  laughing  eyes,  and  hands  pur- 
ple-stained from  the  dye-pots,  came  running 
into  the  room  and  called  his  name.  But  he 
did  not  turn,  because  he  did  not  hear.  He 
was  too  busy  wnth  his  thoughts  for  familiar 
sounds  to  disturb  him,  for  just  then  every- 
thing except  the  beauty  of  the  shimmering 
lagoon  was  crowded  out  of  his  mind,  and  he 
saw  only  the  amethysts  and  opals  that  flashed 
at  every  ripple. 

65 


66  BOYHOOD  STORIES 

The  girl  was  not  held  spellbound  by  the 
wizardry  of  the  sunset.  She  was  just  a  child 
of  the  tintori  (the  dyers),  and  she  never  had 
fancies  beyond  those  of  the  money  the  dyeing 
would  bring,  and  the  trinkets  she  might  buy, 
and  thought  it  far  better  to  talk  of  the  good 
fortune  come  to  them  that  day,  than  to  stand 
gazing  out  on  the  canal.  So  she  went  up 
and  shook  him  violently. 

"Jacopo!"  she  exclaimed.  "J^copo  Ro- 
busti!  Wake  up,  boy!  Don't  you  know 
that  this  is  a  great  day  for  us?  Now  that 
the  Dogaressa  has  sent  her  goods  to  be  col- 
ored, other  great  folk  are  sure  to  patronize 
this  shop,  and  before  long  your  father  will 
be  the  most  prosperous  dyer  in  Venice. 
Surely  you  know  that,  Jacopo !" 

The  boy  turned  slowly,  as  if  reluctant  to 
take  his  eyes  from  the  glowing  canal.  For 
now  that  the  heat  was  over,  gondolas  were 
beginning  to  glide  by,  and  snatches  of  song 
came  from  the  lips  of  the  light-hearted 
rowers.  The  music,  the  color,  and  the  swan- 
like motion  of  the  boats  belonged  together, 
and  Jacopo  loved  it  all.  But  no  matter  how 
strong  its  allurement,  it  could  not  hold  him 


JACOPO,  THE  LITTLE  DYER    67 

after  his  cousin  came  into  the  room.  For 
she  was  a  persistent  maid,  and  always  kept 
nagging  until  she  had  her  way. 

''I  know,"  he  replied,  "and  also  that  the 
work  must  be  ready  to-morrow  night,  which 
means  that  I  '11  have  to  stay  at  home  and 
help,  instead  of  going  out  on  the  Canalezzo 
to  see  the  sunset." 

Floria  frowned  at  him. 

"The  idea  of  thinking  of  anything  but 
your  father's  good  fortune!"  she  rebuked. 
"The  sun  goes  down  every  night,  and  the 
canal  will  always  be  there.  But  we  've  never 
had  work  from  the  Dogaressa  before,  and 
you  ought  to  be  glad  to  stay  at  home  and  lend 
a  hand.  Come  and  look  at  the  stuff.  It  is 
silk  from  the  Indies,  and  will  be  colored 
crimson." 

The  odor  of  boiling  dye  came  in  through 
the  open  door,  and  his  father's  voice  called 
just  then.  Jacopo  knew  there  was  no  more 
standing  on  the  balcony  for  him,  so  he  fol- 
lowed Floria  into  the  shop  that,  its  walls 
gay  with  pictures  in  fresco  fashion,  adjoined 
the  living-room ;  and  soon  they  were  at  work 
grinding  the  colors  that  were  to  transform 


68  BOYHOOD  STORIES 

the  creamy  silk  of  the  Indies  into  a  gorgeous 
crimson  fit  for  the  court  robe  of  a  Venetian 
lady.  Robusti  the  elder  was  rolling  up  some 
material  colored  that  day,  while  the  appren- 
tice tintori,  their  arms  mottled  from  the  dip- 
ping, were  finishing  up  the  last  bit  of  work. 
Dust  from  the  grinding  pigments  and  steam 
from  the  boiling  vats  filled  the  place ;  and  as 
Jacopo  worked,  he  thought  how  pleasant  it 
must  be  on  the  canal,  with  odors  from  many 
a  walled  garden  wafting  across  it,  and  the 
soft  singing  of  lithe-limbed  gondoliers.  But 
he  was  a  true  Venetian  lad,  and,  when  the 
father  spoke,  had  no  thought  save  that  of 
obedience.  That  is  why  the  walls  were  so 
brightly  tinted.  For  often  when  his  heart 
was  out  on  the  lagoons  and  he  had  to  stay  at 
home  and  help,  he  filled  the  intervals  between 
watching  the  pots  and  turning  the  coloring 
fabrics  by  making  charcoal  sketches  and  tint- 
ing them  with  dyes. 

There  were  dozens  of  such  pictures ;  here 
a  bit  of  sea  with  a  sunset  sky  like  a  painted 
canopy  above  the  white-sailed  galleys,  and 
there  a  lord  of  Venice,  gaily  robed  as  Ve- 
netian nobles  were  in  those  golden  days. 


JACOPO,  THE  LITTLE  DYER    69 

Scattered  among  them  were  groups  of  tin- 
tori,  like  his  father  and  his  father's  men, 
with  dye-bespattered  arms,  and  smocks  as 
many  colored  as  Joseph's  coat,  and  some- 
times there  were  snatches  of  fairy  landscape 
across  which  fantastic  figures  flitted,  just  as 
in  the  pictures  of  his  fancy.  For  when  the 
soul  is  as  full  of  beautiful  things  as  an  over- 
flowing river,  some  of  them  are  sure  to  get 
out  where  people  will  see. 

The  next  morning  every  member  of  the 
Robusti  household  was  up  before  the  ringing 
of  the  matin-bells.  The  apprentice  tintori 
came  early  too,  and  soon  the  pots  were  steam- 
ing and  a  hum  of  work  was  about  the  shop. 
For  the  silk  had  been  promised  for  that  even- 
ing, and  to  disappoint  the  Dogaressa  would 
be  ruinous  indeed.  It  would  mean  that 
never  again  would  great  folk  patronize  the 
place,  and  that  would  be  a  calamity,  for  great 
folk  paid  well.  So  all  hands  worked  with  a 
vim,  the  men  turning  and  stirring  while  the 
dyer  directed,  Jacopo  and  Floria  both  lend- 
ing a  hand.  There  was  water  to  be  brought, 
and  refuse  liquor  to  be  carried  away,  which 
they  could  do  as  well  as  any  one. 


70  BOYHOOD  STORIES 

Evening  came  and  all  was  finished,  and  al- 
though Jacopo  had  not  had  a  chance  to  go 
out  on  the  canal,  he  was  so  interested  that  he 
forgot  to  be  disappointed.  The  costume- 
maker  who  was  coming  to  pass  upon  the 
work  might  arrive  any  minute,  and  Jacopo 
wanted  to  hear  what  he  had  to  say.  Of 
course  it  was  perfectly  done,  but  so  much 
depended  upon  the  success  of  that  dyeing 
that  all  looked  forward  eagerly  to  hearing 
the  words  of  approval. 

"How  splendid  it  will  be  when  he  says  it 
is  all  right !"  Floria  exclaimed,  as  she  danced 
around  the  table  where  the  sheeny  stuff  was 
piled  in  crimson  billows.  "Word  will  go 
out  all  over  Venice,  and  nobles  will  give  us 
their  patronage." 

And  Robusti  the  elder  smiled  at  her,  for 
he  knew  that  she  spoke  the  truth.  But 
Jacopo  said  nothing.  He  was  busy  drawing 
on  the  wall. 

Sweetly  across  the  lagoons  the  Angelus 
sounded,  and  for  a  minute  all  was  quiet  in 
the  shop.  Jacopo  paused  from  his  drawing, 
and  laughing-eyed  Floria  did  not  finish  her 
dance,  for  always  those  of  the  Robusti  house- 


JACOPO,  THE  LITTLE  DYER    71 

hold  were  faithful  in  their  devotions,  and  be- 
cause of  gratitude  over  their  good  fortune 
they  were  more  fervid  than  usual. 

Then  the  inspector  came,  with  pompous 
bearing  and  speech  abounding  in  high- 
sounding  words,  pronouncing  the  work  per- 
fect, and  the  Robusti  family  knew  it  was  the 
beginning  of  wonderful  things  for  them. 
But  one  blessing  it  brought  of  which  they 
had  not  dreamed,  beside  which  the  glory  of 
dyeing  the  Dogaressa's  robe  was  poor  in- 
deed. That  faded  and  wore  out,  but  the 
other  glory,  that  had  its  beginning  that  day, 
has  lasted  through  five  hundred  years.  For 
as  the  inspector  turned  to  go,  he  saw  the  fig- 
ures on  the  wall. 

"Oh,  ho!"  he  exclaimed.  *'A  gay  shop 
you  have  here.  And  who  is  the  merry 
painter,  pray?" 

Robusti  the  elder  answered  in  words  of 
apology. 

'T  do  not  wonder  that  you  think  such  walls 
unfit  for  a  dignified  business,  and  assure  you 
that  it  is  none  of  my  doing.  My  boy  Jacopo 
defaced  them  when  he  had  better  have  been 
thinking  of  his  trade." 


72  BOYHOOD  STORIES 

Jacopo  turned  his  wide  dark  eyes  on  the 
man,  wondering  if  he  too  would  reprove  him 
because  of  his  picture-making.  He  had  been 
scolded  so  often  for  wasting  his  time,  and 
supposed  of  course  the  costume-maker  would 
share  the  family  opinion.  But  he  met  with  a 
surprise. 

"That  sturdy  chap  yonder?"  the  man 
asked.  *T  Ve  a  knowledge  of  pictures,  and 
this  work  seems  from  the  hand  of  one  well- 
nigh  grown." 

"I  did  it,"  Jacopo  answered,  "but  not  be- 
cause I  wanted  to  spoil  the  shop.  I  had  no 
other  place." 

The  inspector  shook  his  head. 

"I  would  not  have  believed  it!"  he  said. 
"Surely  he  has  the  gift." 

Then  to  the  father : 

"Mayhap  your  lad  will  become  a  good 
dyer,  but  he  will  make  a  far  better  artist; 
and  if  you  are  wise,  you  will  set  about  ap- 
prenticing him  to  a  painter.  There  is  Titian 
of  Cadore,  the  flower  of  Venetian  colorists. 
Before  another  day  passes,  I  would  see  him 
and  beg  that  he  try  the  boy." 

Robusti  the  dyer  was  a  sensible  man,     Al- 


JACOPO,  THE  LITTLE  DYER    75 

though  there  were  no  horses  in  Venice,  he 
had  lived  in  Ravenna  once,  and  knew  if  a 
steed  is  built  for  speed  and  much  travel,  it  is 
a  mistake  to  set  him  to  drawing  loads.  And 
he  was  wise  enough  to  realize  that,  if  one 
has  a  gift  for  painting,  it  is  sad  indeed  to 
keep  him  in  a  dye-shop.  The  inspector's 
word  meant  much,  and,  as  he  thought  the 
boy  should  become  an  artist,  it  must  be  true. 
So  it  was  decided  to  place  him  with  a  mas- 
ter. 

"He  shall  have  a  chance  to  do  his  best," 
the  father  said,  as  they  talked  it  over  that 
night,  "for  it  shall  not  be  charged  to  me  that 
I  spoiled  a  good  painter  to  make  a  second- 
rate  dyer." 

The  next  morning  Jacopo  and  his  father 
set  out  for  the  workshop  of  Titian  of  Cadore. 
The  pearl-gray  of  dawn  was  still  over  the 
city,  but,  through  the  open  spaces  between 
the  buildings,  reflected  rays  from  the  out- 
peeping  sun  reached  arms  of  light  along  the 
canals.  Across  the  Piazza  of  San  Marco 
they  went,  under  the  clock-tower  whose  two 
bronze  giants  glowed  and  shimmered,  and 
into  the  Merceria,  where  there  was  a  Babel 


y(>  BOYHOOD  STORIES 

of  sound  as  the  merchant  folk  opened  their 
shops.  But  they  did  not  stop  to  look  at  the 
pretty  things  nor  to  gossip  with  the  loiterers 
gathered  there,  although  the  boy  would  have 
liked  to  pause  a  bit  before  the  pictures  the 
men  on  the  benches  were  painting.  But 
there  was  no  time  to  lose,  as  the  dyer  must 
soon  return  to  his  shop.  So  straight  on  they 
went,  across  the  curving  Rialto  and  down 
the  narrow  street  beyond,  where,  taking  a 
boat,  they  came  to  the  studio  of  the  mas- 
ter. 

"Will  you  try  the  boy?"  the  dyer  asked,  as 
he  explained  that  the  worthy  costume-maker 
himself  had  recommended  a  painter's  career 
for  him.  And  in  answer  the  great  man  told 
him  to  come  next  day  and  begin  work. 

Jacopo's  heart  sang  all  the  way  home,  and 
he  worked  in  the  shop  that  afternoon  as  he 
had  never  worked  before.  For  even  though 
he  did  not  like  the  half-sickening  odors  and 
the  perpetual  steaming  of  the  boiling  liquid, 
he  knew  he  would  enter  a  wonder-world  on 
the  morrow,  and  until  that  time  things  dis- 
agreeable mattered  little.  Floria  had  never 
seen  him  so  gay,  and  remarked  to  her  uncle 


JACOPO,  THE  LITTLE  DYEK    'j'j 

that  he  was  surely  the  happiest  boy  in  Venice. 

"It  shows  he  can  be  contented  at  dyeing," 
she  said. 

For  still  she  believed  that  to  be  of  the  tin- 
tori  was  better  than  to  be  a  painter. 

But  the  man  shook  his  head. 

"No,"  he  replied,  *'it  is  the  thought  of 
what  is  to  come  that  makes  him  glad." 

Jacopo  began  his  work  with  the  master, 
and  Heaven  seemed  to  have  opened  its  gates 
to  him.  Titian  then  Lad  many  canvases  in 
his  workshop,  and  the  beauty-loving  lad 
drank  in  the  magic  of  their  coloring  as 
thirsty  travelers  drink  from  cooling  springs, 
his  eyes  reveling  in  the  gold  and  purples  and 
crimsons  that  surpassed  everything  he  had 
ever  seen  except  the  sunset  tints  on  the 
lagoons.  The  working  days  in  the  studio 
were  long,  yet  he  was  never  glad  when  they 
came  to  an  end,  and  always  looked  eagerly 
to  the  beginning  of  another.  It  was  an  en- 
chanted land  in  which  he  dwelt,  and  he  was  a 
fairy  prince. 

But  his  joy  was  to  be  short-lived,  for  very 
soon  afterward  the  master  sent  him  away. 
Why,  no  one  knows,  although  many  guesses 


78  BOYHOOD  STORIES 

have  been  made  as  to  the  reason,  and  some 
have  gone  so  far  as  to  say  that  Titian  was 
jealous  of  the  gifted  youth  and  feared  he 
might  eclipse  him.  But  it  does  not  seem  pos- 
sible that  the  master-painter  of  Italy  could 
have  feared  a  mere  boy,  for  he  was  great 
enough  to  know  that  there  is  room  in  the 
world  for  more  than  one  genius.  But  at 
any  rate  he  sent  him  away,  and  dark  days 
began  for  Jacopo. 

Many  a  lad  would  have  given  up  and  gone 
back  to  the  dye-shop,  but  not  Robusti's  son. 
He  was  made  of  the  stuff  that  wins,  and 
every  obstacle  in  his  way  goaded  him  on 
to  greater  effort.  The  greatest  master  of 
Venice  had  refused  to  teach  him.  But  he 
determined  to  teach  himself,  and  the  strug- 
gle he  had  in  doing  it  has  never  been  equaled 
by  an  artist  before  or  since. 

Along  the  Merceria  were  elevated  benches 
where  the  poorer  painters  sat  and  did  their 
work  before  the  eyes  of  the  passing  throng, 
selling  it  sometimes  while  the  canvases  were 
still  wet.  There  Jacopo  went  day  after  day, 
to  watch  them  mix  and  apply  the  colors. 
Once  he  worked  with  journeymen  printers  at 


JACOPO,  THE  LITTLE  DYER    79 

San  Marco,  and  once  with  stone-masons  at 
Cittadella  that  he  might  learn  the  principles 
of  joining.  To  know  the  laws  of  proportion, 
he  watched  the  people  in  the  streets  and  mod- 
eled them  in  wax,  moving  these  figures  back 
and  forth  between  lamps  to  watch  the  effect 
of  the  shadows. 

For  ten  years  he  struggled  on,  always 
studying,  always  watching  and  working.  It 
would  have  been  easier  to  have  taken  up  his 
father's  trade,  for  in  the  dye-shop,  when  the 
day's  toil  is  over,  there  follows  a  night  of 
rest.  But  Jacopo  thought  only  of  being  a 
painter,  and  was  bound  to  succeed.  So  he 
kept  on.  All  the  work  that  paid  well  was 
given  to  Titian,  and  that  Jacopo  might  get 
his  pictures  where  people  could  see  them,  he 
had  to  paint  for  nothing.  But  that  did  not 
matter.  He  was  learning  and  growing,  and 
at  last  he  had  his  day. 

Titian  died,  and  all  Venice  wondered  who 
would  take  his  place. 

'There  is  no  one  else,"  the  critics  said 
sadly.     "His  like  will  not  come  again." 

But  one  of  the  nobles  who  was  wise  enough 
to  know  that  when  a  work  is  to  be  done  there 


8o  BOYHOOD  STORIES 

is  always  a  man  to  do  it,  thought  of  Jacopo 
Robusti. 

*'Why  not  Tintoretto?"  asked  this  one, 
whose  word  was  law.  And  by  Tintoretto  he 
meant  Jacopo,  who  because  of  his  father's 
trade  was  called  "The  Little  Dyer." 

''We  will  go  and  see,"  they  said.  ''And  it 
will  be  a  glad  day  if  he  can  take  the  master's 
place." 

So  the  great  of  Venice  gathered  about  the 
paintings  of  one  who  had  given  his  work  to 
every  church  and  building  that  would  re- 
ceive it.  In  Santa  Maria  della  Orto  they 
found  it,  in  shops  along  the  Merceria,  and 
out  Treviso  way  in  village  churches  where 
peasants  met  to  worship. 

"It  is  wonderful!"  they  exclaimed. 
"What  magnificent  coloring!  What  per- 
fection of  line !  Surely  this  is  the  work  of 
the  master." 

For  they  did  not  know  that,  during  the 
years  they  had  scorned  him,  his  one  thought 
and  one  aim  had  been  to  make  his  pictures  as 
fine  as  Titian's,  and  he  had  succeeded  so  well 
that  they  mistook  them  for  the  master's. 

Then  it  was  agreed  that  he  should  paint  in 


JACOPO,  THE  LITTLE  DYER    8i 

the  Doge's  Palace,  the  greatest  honor  that 
could  come  to  a  Venetian  artist.  And  there 
he  left  much  work  that  still  draws  to  the  city 
of  St.  Mark  art  lovers  from  every  quarter  of 
the  globe.  There  is  his  exquisite  "Adora- 
tion of  the  Savior,"  and  there  too  is  the  won- 
derful "Paradise,"  the  largest  oil-painting  in 
the  world. 

But  Venice  is  not  the  only  city  that  is  rich 
in  his  handiwork.  Many  galleries  in  many 
lands  have  given  princely  sums  to  obtain  it, 
and  his  canvases  have  been  carried  to 
France  and  Germany,  and  even  to  the  banks 
of  the  Thames,  where,  in  the  stately  halls 
they  adorn,  they  give  joy  to  thousands,  al- 
though the  hand  that  fashioned  them  has 
been  still  for  five  hundred  years.  Yet  very 
few  know  the  name  of  Jacopo  Robusti,  be- 
cause to  this  day,  as  in  the  old  Venetian  time, 
he  is  still  called  in  the  musical  tongue  of  the 
lagoons,  'Tintoretto, — The  Little  Dyer." 


BARTOLOME'S  VELVET  HAT 


V 

BARTOLOME'S  VELVET  HAT 

BLACK-EYED  Bartolome  Murillo  was 
the  happiest  child  in  Seville.  No 
more  insults  and  times  of  disgrace  for  him, 
he  thought;  no  more  taunts  from  his 
playmates  about  being  a  baby  because  he 
wore  the  cap  that  was  the  headgear  of  very 
small  Spanish  children.  He  had  a  hat  now, 
with  a  peaked  crown  and  rolling  brim,  and 
because  it  was  made  of  the  finest  velvet  and 
trimmed  with  a  silver  band  to  match  his  suit, 
old  Carmalita,  who  lived  next  door,  said  he 
looked  like  a  young  cavalier.  It  is  a  dread- 
ful thing  to  be  called  a  baby  when  one  feels 
quite  a  big  boy,  and  as  the  cap  was  responsi- 
ble for  the  title  it  was  little  wonder  he  was 
glad  to  put  it  aside. 

"You  are  big  enough  to  stop  wearing  the 
nino  ^  cap,"  his  mother  said  when  she  gave 

1  Nino — baby. 

85 


86  BOYHOOD  STORIES 

it  to  him  as  his  birthday  gift  that  morning. 
"You  shall  have  a  hat  like  a  man." 

And  Bartolome  was  more  glad  than  he 
had  ever  been,  for  as  long  as  one  wears  nino 
clothes  he  is  sure  to  be  called  a  nino,  and  he 
was  tired  of  it. 

He  went  out  into  the  street  to  look  if  any 
of  his  playmates  were  about,  but  not  one  was 
in  sight,  for  it  was  August,  when  the  sun 
shines  with  burning  heat  in  southern  Spain, 
and  boys  are  fond  of  seeking  the  cool  of  the ' 
river.  He  wanted  them  to  know  that  his 
cap  belonged  to  the  past,  and  that  he  could 
be  called  a  baby  no  longer  because  of  his 
clothes,  so  he  started  out  to  look  for  them. 

The  heat  had  driven  most  of  the  people 
into  the  houses,  which  made  Bartolome 
sorry,  for  he  was  so  proud  of  the  new  hat 
that  he  would  have  liked  all  the  world  to  see. 
He  was  sure  they  would  think  it  as  lovely  as 
he  did,  although  that  was  a  very  great  mis- 
take, for  at  that  time  such  headgear  was 
quite  in  fashion  in  Spain,  and  created  no 
more  of  a  sensation  than  Panamas  do  to-day. 
But  he  was  too  young  to  realize  it,  and  when- 
ever he  passed  a  lady  in  her  carriage,  or  a 


Whenever    he    passed    a    gaudily    skirted    market-girl,    he    saluted 
with    the   air    of    a    grandee 


BARTOLOME'S  VELVET  HAT    89 

gaudily  skirted  market-girl  with  a  red  rose 
glowing  in  her  shining  black  hair,  he  saluted 
with  the  air  of  a  grandee.  He  did  not  see 
his  friends,  although  he  went  far  down  the 
street,  past  gardens  sweet  with  the  breath 
of  oleanders,  and  beyond  the  cathedral  and 
the  Giralda  that  rises  like  a  fairy  tower  be- 
side it,  to  the  bridge  that  spans  the  Guadal- 
quiver;  for  while  he  was  rejoicing  over  his 
present,  they  had  scattered  about  the  city. 
So  he  turned  back,  reaching  home  just  as  his 
mother  was  ready  to  start  to  church. 

*'You  stay  here  until  I  get  back,"  she  said 
as  she  adjusted  her  lace  mantilla  on  her  head 
and  fastened  it  at  the  shoulders  with  golden 
clasps.  *'Your  Aunt  Eulalia  may  come  at 
any  time,  and  she  must  not  be  greeted  by 
closed  doors." 

Bartolome  had  meant  to  get  something  to 
eat  and  go  out  into  the  street  again,  yet  he 
did  not  mind  much  when  told  to  stay  at  home. 
To  have  a  wish  come  true  as  he  had  had  that 
morning  is  enough  to  make  the  day  bright, 
even  if  everything  else  does  not  come  one's 
way.  So  putting  the  beloved  hat  on  the 
table  where  he  could  see  it,  he  began  won- 


90  BOYHOOD  STORIES 

dering  what  to  do  until  his  mother  returned. 

Just  above  him  on  the  wall  was  a  picture 
of  a  child  and  a  lamb,  which,  ever  since  he 
could  remember,  had  been  in  that  place.  It 
was  faded  and  stained  by  time,  for  it  had 
hung  in  his  mother's  girlhood  home  before 
being  brought  into  his  own,  and  was  one  of 
the  treasured  possessions  of  the  house  of 
Murillo.  As  he  looked  at  the  bare-headed 
lad  and  then  at  his  birthday  present,  he 
thought  he  would  like  it  better  if  the  boy  had 
a  hat  like  his  own. 

''And  I  'd  rather  play  with  a  dog  than  a 
lamb,"  he  thought.  ''I  guess  whoever 
painted  that  picture  did  n't  know  much  about 
boys.     I  'm  going  to  fix  it." 

So  taking  a  piece  of  charcoal,  he  climbed 
up  on  the  table  where  he  could  reach  the  pic- 
ture, and  began  marking  around  the  child's 
sunny  curls.  Then  he  went  to  work  on  the 
lamb,  and  in  a  little  while  the  meek-looking 
animal  was  changed  into  a  curly  tailed  dog. 

The  cathedral  bells  pealed  out  the  hour  of 
noon,  and  mingling  with  them  like  golden- 
throated  bird  calls  came  the  chimes  from  the 
Alcazar.     But  Bartolome  did  not  hear.     He 


BARTOLOME'S  VELVET  HAT     91 

was  lost  in  his  drawing,  and  when  his  mother 
opened  the  door  he  was  still  busily  at  work. 

Maria  Perez  looked  at  him  with  horrified 
eyes,  and  then  at  the  picture  that  had  altered 
so  in  her  absence.  Instead  of  the  boy  and 
the  Iamb  she  had  known  from  childhood,  a 
lad  in  a  cavalier's  hat  caressed  a  saucy- faced 
dog. 

"Oh,  Bartolome!"  she  exclaimed;  "yo^ 
have  ruined  it!" 

But  Bartolome  turned  in  surprise.  He 
was  conscious  of  having  done  no  harm. 

*T  am  sure  the  boy  will  be  happier  now," 
he  said,  ''because  he  has  a  hat  and  a  dog." 

But  Maria  Perez  shook  her  head  and 
seemed  very  unhappy,  and  when  his  father 
came  home  and  found  what  he  had  done,  he 
was  locked  up  in  the  cellar.  So  instead  of 
going  out  where  the  boys  could  see  his  new 
hat,  and  greeting  his  Aunt  Eulalia  when  she 
arrived,  he  had  to  stay  in  darkness  and  dis- 
grace. 

Evening  brought  the  Padre  Pedro,  the 
wisest  man  in  all  Seville,  and  the  good  friend 
and  adviser  of  the  family.  He  was  sur- 
prised at  not  seeing  Bartolome,  for  the  boy 


92  BOYHOOD  STORIES 

loved  him  and  often  ran  to  meet  him,  and 
when  told  that  he  had  been  so  bad  they  had 
to  lock  him  up,  he  could  hardly  believe  it. 
Black-eyed  Bartolome,  who  was  usually  so 
good!  It  did  not  seem  possible  that  he 
should  need  punishing  so  severely,  and  the 
old  man  wanted  to  know  about  it. 

*'0h,  good  padre !"  Maria  Perez  said  with 
tears  in  her  eyes ;  ''he  has  ruined  my  'Boy  and 
the  Lamb,'  marked  it  all  over  with  charcoal." 

Padre  Pedro  lifted  his  brows  in  surprise. 
That  was  indeed  a  very  serious  offense. 

"Marked  it  over  with  charcoal,"  he  re- 
peated. "I  did  not  think  Bartolome  would 
do  anything  like  that !" 

They  took  him  in  to  see,  but  when  he  stood 
in  front  of  the  picture  a  look  came  into  his 
face  that  was  very  tender. 

"The  blessed  boy!"  he  exclaimed.  "He 
was  so  happy  over  his  own  hat  that  he 
wanted  the  child  to  have  one  like  it.  I 
thought  he  had  scratched  and  defaced  it. 
But  he  meant  no  harm,  I  am  sure.  Call  him 
and  let  us  see." 

So  Bartolome  was  brought  from  his  place 
of  prison  to  tell  his  story  to  the  padre,  and  as 


BARTOLOME'S  VELVET  HAT    95 

he  came  he  wondered  if  he  too  would  say  he 
had  been  very  wicked. 

*'Why  did  you  do  it?"  the  old  man  asked. 

'T  wanted  the  boy  to  have  a  hat  like  mine," 
came  the  earnest  reply.  "And  I  was  sure 
he  'd  like  a  dog  better  than  a  sheep,  so  I 
changed  that  too.  I  did  n't  mean  to  be  bad, 
Padre  Pedro.     Truly  I  did  n't." 

*T  know  it,"  said  the  padre  kindly.  *'And 
your  father  and  mother  know  too." 

Bartolome  was  not  locked  up  again  that 
evening,  but  stayed  in  the  room  where  they 
planned  about  finding  him  a  drawing  master. 

*'A  boy  who  can  draw  like  that  must  have 
a  teacher." 

And  because  it  was  Padre  Pedro  who  said 
it,  and  he  was  so  very  wise,  his  father  and 
mother  and  aunt  thought  so  too. 

*'We  can  place  him  with  my  uncle,  Juan 
de  Castillo,"  said  Maria  Perez,  "for  no  one 
in  Seville  can  teach  better  than  he." 

So  Bartolome  Murillo  began  to  study  art, 
and  while  he  was  still  a  boy  painted  two  pic- 
tures that  people  said  proved  he  would  be 
great.  His  parents  no  longer  grieved  be- 
cause he  had  tampered  with  the  family  pic- 


96  BOYHOOD  STORIES 

ture,  for  Padre  Pedro  declared  he  would  be 
glad  to  have  it  in  his  study.  So  there  it  hung 
for  many  years,  even  after  the  old  priest  was 
gone,  and  the  figures  were  no  longer  clear, 
so  that  it  looked  just  like  a  spotted  piece  of 
paper.  And  Murillo's  paintings  still  hang 
in  the  world's  great  galleries,  and  the  years 
have  not  faded  them  any  more  than  they 
have  dimmed  the  glory  of  his  name.  To  this 
day  it  is  the  pride  of  Spain,  and  the  people  of 
Seville  love  to  talk  of  his  childhood  there, 
and  of  the  time  when  he  was  a  pupil  of  Cas- 
tillo, who,  although  he  was  considered  a  very 
wonderful  painter  in  those  days,  is  remem- 
bered now  chiefly  because  he  was  the  teacher 
of  Murillo. 

If  you  are  ever  in  Spain,  go  to  the  old  town 
in  the  South  that  is  still  rich  in  memories 
of  the  ]\Ioor.  And  perhaps,  some  evening 
when  the  brilliant  southern  sunset  touches 
the  stucco  houses  with  rainbow  tints,  and 
great  folk  in  the  balconies  sit  listening  to 
guitars  in  the  street  below  tinkling  a  sweet 
accompaniment  to  feet  flying  in  a  fandango, 
if  you  love  the  place  well  enough  to  try  to 
make  friends  with  its  sunny-hearted  people, 


BARTOLOME'S  VELVET  HAT     97 

some  stately  old  cavalier  or  soft-voiced  dame 
may  tell  you,  as  only  they  of  Seville  can  tell 
it,  the  story  of  Bartolome's  Velvet  Hat. 


THE  WHITTLER  OF  CREMONA 


yi 

THE  WHITTLER  OF  CREMONA 

IT  was  sundown  and  Maytime,  and  Cre- 
mona was  gay  in  the  wealth  of  green  and 
gold  weather.  Revelers  in  fantastic  attire 
went  laughing  along  the  promenades,  for  it 
was  the  last  day  of  carnival  week,  and  grave 
men  and  women  had  been  transformed  into 
merry-eyed  maskers.  Instead  of  a  solemn 
clerk  in  office  or  shop  there  was  a  jolly  shep- 
herd, or  perhaps  a  dryad,  while  money-lend- 
ers who  on  other  days  looked  stern  and  for- 
bidding frisked  about  as  goats  or  clowns  or 
apes.  Yes,  it  was  gay  in  Cremona,  for  it 
was  May  and  carnival  time,  and  they  come 
but  once  a  year. 

Down  in  a  narrow,  alley-like  street  that 
crept,  zigzag  fashion,  toward  the  Duomo, 
three  boys  were  standing  in  the  shadows. 
They  wore  no  masks,  not  even  a  scarlet 
brow-shield  to  show  that  they  had  any  part 

lOI 


I02  BOYHOOD  STORIES 

in  the  merriment  that  was  general  on  the 
boulevards,  and  the  shabbiness  of  their  cloth- 
ing told  that  they  were  of  Cremona's  poor. 
Perhaps  they  had  crept  from  the  bright- 
robed  throng  because  of  their  somber  attire ; 
perhaps  just  to  talk  over  a  question  that 
seemed  important,  for  two  of  them  were  in 
earnest  conversation,  while  the  third  stood 
quietly  by,  whittling  at  a  pine  stick.  He 
was  younger  than  the  others,  with  a  sensitive 
face  and  big,  expressive  eyes  that  were 
brown  and  velvety,  and  his  companions 
called  him  Tonio. 

"But  I  tell  you,  Salvator,  every  minute 
lost  now  is  like  throwing  gold  away.  People 
are  generous  at  carnival  time,  and  we  can  get 
twenty  lira  to-night  as  easily  as  one  when 
the  fun  is  over,  for  a  merry  heart  makes  an 
open  hand." 

''Perhaps  you  are  right,  Gulio,  and  I  will 
go.     Shall  we  start  now?" 

His  brother  nodded  and  replied,  "Yes,  to 
the  piazza,  in  front  of  the  Duomo,  where  a 
crowd  is  always  passing.  You  sing,  and  I 
will  play.     Do  you  want  to  go  too,  Tonio?" 

Antonio  looked  up  from  the  stick  that  was 


THE  WHITTLER  OF  CREMONA  103 

beginning  to  take  the  semblance  of  a  dagger 
under  his  knife,  and  turned  his  velvet  eyes 
full  on  Gulio. 

"Yes.  I  'd  like  to  be  with  you,  even  if  I 
cannot  sing." 

The  brothers  laughed. 

"You  certainly  cannot  sing,"  Gulio  re- 
marked. "You  can  do  nothing  but  whittle, 
which  is  a  pity,  for  that  never  turns  a  penny 
your  way.  But  hurry.  People  are  in  their 
merriest  mood  now." 

And  laughing  voices  sounding  from  the 
streets  told  that  he  was  right. 

Gulio  picked  up  his  violin,  and,  followed 
by  Salvator  and  Antonio,  led  the  way 
through  the  alley  to  a  street  that  skirted  the 
Po.  Other  Cremonese,  both  old  and  young, 
moved  in  the  same  direction,  for  all  wanted 
to  be  where  the  fun  was  at  its  height,  and 
that  was  in  the  great  square  in  front  of  the 
Duomo.  The  brothers  chatted  as  they  went 
along,  for  the  thought  of  the  money  the  rev- 
elers would  give  had  made  them  light  of 
heart.  But  Antonio  said  little.  Gulio's  re- 
mark that  he  could  do  nothing  but  whittle 
was  still  in  his  mind,  and  while  he  knew  it  to 


104  BOYHOOD  STORIES 

be  true,  it  made  him  sad.  He  loved  music, 
yet  could  have  no  part  in  making  it,  for  he 
did  not  own  a  violin,  and  when  he  tried  to 
sing  his  voice  squeaked  so  that  the  boys 
laughed.  It  was  hard  to  be  just  a  whittler 
when  his  companions  could  play  and  sing 
well. 

Soon  they  were  in  front  of  the  great  cathe- 
dral, where  a  throng  continually  moved  by, 
the  brilliancy  of  the  masks  and  dominos 
seeming  to  vie  with  the  hues  nature  had 
spread  across  the  sky.  For  the  sun  had 
dropped  like  a  ball  of  flame  on  the  broad 
Lombardian  plains  beyond  the  city,  and 
masses  of  purple  and  maroon  clouds  were 
piled  along  the  horizon.  Now  and  then  a 
sail  fluttered  like  a  white-winged  bird  as  a 
pleasure  bark  moved  up  or  down  the  river, 
and  gold-emblazoned  standards  and  rich  ca- 
parisons on  the  horses  and  carriages  of  great 
lords  added  color  to  the  scene.  There  is  a 
saying  that  all  nature  is  glad  when  Cremona 
makes  merry,  and  the  glowing  beauty  of  the 
evening  seemed  to  prove  it  true. 

Without  losing  a  minute  Gulio  took  his 
violin  from  its  case,  and  tuning  it  with  skil- 


THE  WHITTLER  OF  CREMONA  105 

ful  fingers,  began  the  prelude  of  a  Lombar- 
dian  folk  song.  Salvator's  voice  was  sweet 
and  lute-like,  and  as  he  sang  to  his  brother's 
accompaniment,  several  stopped  to  listen,  and 
dropped  coins  into  the  singer's  outstretched 
hand  when  he  finished. 

Antonio  kept  on  with  his  whittling  until  it 
was  so  dark  he  could  not  see  to  work.  Then 
he  sat  on  the  cathedral  steps  and  waited  for 
the  boys. 

A  man  walked  by.  He  wore  neither  mask 
nor  domino,  and  seemed  to  care  little  about 
the  gaiety.  But  seeing  the  youthful  musi- 
cians, he  came  close  to  where  they  stood. 

'That  is  a  pretty  song,  lad,"  he  said  as 
Salvator  finished  another  ballad.  *'Would 
you  sing  it  again  to  please  a  lonely  man's 
fancy?" 

He  seemed  to  hear  nothing  but  the  music 
as  the  boy  did  as  he  asked,  and  stood  with 
half-closed  eyes  listening  to  the  fresh  young 
voice  that  blended  sweetly  with  the  soft  vio- 
lin accompaniment.  Then,  handing  Salva- 
tor a  coin,  he  went  on  down  the  street,  with- 
out noticing  Antonio,  who  still  sat  on  the 
steps. 


io6  BOYHOOD  STORIES 

The  boy  held  the  coin  up  in  the  waning 
light  and  gave  a  cry. 

''Sacre  giorno!"  ^  A  gold  piece !  A  gold 
piece  for  one  song!" 

Gulio  looked  at  him  dubiously.  But 
when  he  examined  the  coin,  he  too  exclaimed, 
"Truly  a  gold  piece !  But  he  can  well  afford 
it.     That  is  the  great  Amati." 

Antonio  came  and  looked  at  the  money. 
He  had  seen  very  few  gold  pieces,  and 
thought  it  wonderful  that  a  man  should  give 
so  much.  Then,  turning  to  Gulio,  he  asked, 
"Who  is  Amati,  and  why  do  you  call  him 
great?" 

Salvator  stared  in  amazement. 

"You  have  not  heard  of  Amati  ?"  he  asked. 

But  before  he  could  answer  Gulio  inter- 
rupted, "Of  course  not.  Antonio  is  just  a 
whittler.  He  knows  about  knives  and 
woods,  but  little  about  music.  Amati  is  a 
violin  maker,  the  greatest  in  Italy,  and  very, 
very  rich.  Yet  men  say  he  cares  for  nothing 
in  the  world  but  his  work." 

The  brothers  were  so  happy  over  their 
good  fortune  that  they  were  not  willing  to 

^  Sucre  giorno — holy  day. 


Day  after   day   he  toiled   in   the   workshop 


THE  WHITTLER  OF  CREMONA  109 

stay  in  the  street  any  longer.  They  wanted 
to  get  home  with  the  money,  and  Antonio 
had  no  desire  to  be  there  alone.  It  is  jolly 
to  watch  a  throng  of  merry-makers  when 
one  has  companions,  but  not  pleasant  to  be  in 
the  midst  of  gaiety  in  which  you  have  no 
part.  So  he  walked  with  them  as  far  as  the 
bridge  across  the  Po,  then  went  on  to  his  own 
home  and  crept  to  bed.  But  he  did  not  sleep, 
for  his  brain  was  afire  with  a  thought  that 
had  just  come  into  it.  He  could  not  sing. 
He  could  do  nothing  but  whittle,  and  here  in 
his  own  Cremona  was  a  man  who  with  knives 
and  wood  made  wonderful  violins. 

Before  dawn  next  day  he  was  up,  and  eat- 
ing a  piece  of  bread,  took  some  things  he  had 
made  with  his  knife,  and  crept  out  of  the 
house  while  his  parents  were  still  sleeping. 
Somewhere  in  the  city  the  master  violin- 
maker  dwelt,  and  he  meant  to  find  his  home. 
It  was  not  hard,  for  all  Cremona  knew  of  the 
great  Amati,  and  while  the  matin  bells  were 
still  ringing  Antonio  stood  at  his  door. 

The  servant  growled  because  he  disturbed 
the  house  so  early  and  scolded  him  away,  so 
he  waited  in  the  street  until  he  was  sure 


no  BOYHOOD  STORIES 

it  was  time  for  work  to  begin,  when  again  he 
rattled  the  heavy  brass  knocker.  Again  the 
man  was  about  to  drive  him  away,  when  the 
master,  hearing  the  hirehng's  angry  tones 
and  the  boy's  pleading  ones,  came  to  the 
door. 

"1  have  brought  these  things  for  you  to 
see,"  Antonio  answered  when  questioned. 
*'I  cut  them  out  with  my  knife,  and  want  to 
know  if  you  think  I  can  learn  to  make 
violins." 

The  great  man  smiled. 

"What  is  your  name,  lad?" 

"Antonio  Stradivarius,"  came  the  eager 
reply. 

"And  why  do  you  want  to  make  violins?" 

The  boy's  face  was  very  earnest  as  he 
looked  into  the  master's,  and  the  velvet  eyes 
seemed  to  grow  darker  as  he  spoke. 

"Because  I  love  music,  and  cannot  make 
any.  Salvator  and  Gulio  can  both  sing  and 
play.  You  heard  them  last  night  in  the 
piazza  in  front  of  the  Duomo  and  gave  them 
the  gold  piece.  I  love  music  as  much  as 
they,  but  my  voice  is  squeaky.  I  can  do 
nothing  but  whittle." 


THE  WHITTLER  OF  CREMONA  in 

The  master  laid  his  hand  on  Antonio's 
shoulder. 

''Come  into  the  house  and  you  shall  try. 
The  song  in  the  heart  is  all  that  matters, 
for  there  are  many  ways  of  making  music. 
Some  play  violins,  some  sing,  some  paint  pic- 
tures and  make  statues,  while  others  till  the 
soil  and  make  flowers  bloom.  Each  sings  a 
song,  and  helps  to  make  music  for  the  world. 
If  you  put  your  best  into  it,  the  song  you  sing 
with  knives  and  wood  will  be  just  as  noble 
as  the  one  Salvator  and  Gulio  sing  with  voice 
or  violin." 

So  Antonio  Stradivarius,  a  boy  who  could 
not  sing,  became  a  pupil  of  the  great  Amati. 
Day  after  day  he  toiled  in  the  workshop. 
Day  after  day  he  hewed  persistently  and  pa- 
tiently, until  at  last  he  had  a  violin.  It  was 
not  done  in  a  week,  nor  in  a  month,  for  the 
master  taught  him  many  lessons  beside  those 
in  cutting  and  shaping  and  string  placing, 
one  of  which  was  that  a  tiny  bit  well  done 
each  day  is  what  means  great  achievement  by 
and  by.  Sometimes  he  wanted  to  hurry  and 
work  less  carefully  than  his  teacher  advised, 
but  gradually  he  learned  that  patience  is 


112  BOYHOOD  STORIES 

worth  more  than  all  things  else  to  him  who 
would  excel,  and  when  the  instrument  was 
finished  he  felt  repaid  for  the  long  days  of 
toil,  for  the  master  praised  it,  and  that  was 
a  wonderful  reward. 

Years  passed,  and  he  worked  on  and  on. 
His  squeaky  voice  no  longer  troubled  him, 
for  although  it  had  not  improved,  and  Gulio 
and  Salvator  were  both  singers  much  loved 
in  Cremona,  he  had  learned  that  Amati's 
words  were  true,  and  that  if  there  is  a  song 
in  the  heart  there  is  always  a  way  of  singmg 
it.  So  he  put  his  best  into  his  work,  and  his 
violins  became  known  all  over  Italy.  Musi- 
cians said  their  tone  was  marvelously  sweet 
and  mellow,  and  wondered  how  it  could  be. 
But  to  Antonio  it  seemed  very  simple,  and  he 
said  it  was  just  because  he  put  so  much  love 
into  the  making. 

At  last  Amati  died  and  his  pupil  took  his 
place  as  the  master  violin-maker  of  Italy. 
Salvator  and  Gulio's  voices  had  become 
squeaky,  and  people  no  longer  cared  to  hear 
them,  but  still  Antonio  kept  steadily  on  at  his 
much-loved  work,  trying  to  make  each  violin 


THE  WHITTLER  OF  CREMONA  113 

better  and  more  beautiful  than  the  one  be- 
fore it. 

That  was  over  two  hundred  years  ago,  and 
now,  at  the  mention  of  Cremona,  men  think 
not  of  the  fair  city  beside  the  Po  whose 
stately  Duomo  still  looks  out  over  the  fer- 
tile plains  of  Lombardy,  but  of  the  world's 
greatest  violin-maker,  Antonio  Stradivarius. 
There  is  no  civilized  land  into  which  his  in- 
struments have  not  been  taken,  for  musicians 
prize  them  more  highly  than  any  others,  and 
refuse  for  them  sums  greater  than  any  of 
which  the  boy  Antonio  had  ever  heard.  To 
own  a  ''Strad"  is  to  be  rich  indeed,  and  one 
of  the  things  of  which  Italy  is  proudest  is 
that  it  was  the  land  of  Antonio  Stradivarius. 
All  of  which  goes  to  show  that  although  one 
can  do  nothing  but  whittle,  he  may  help  to 
make  music  for  the  world  if  there  is  a  song 
in  the  heart,  and  a  noble  purpose  and  pa- 
tience and  persistence  keep  the  hands  at 
work. 


A  BIT  O'  PINK  VERBENA 


VII 

A  BIT  O'  PINK  VERBENA 

ONCE  upon  a  time  a  many-gabled  house 
stood  in  a  quaint  quarter  of  old  Ham- 
burg. It  was  a  stately  structure,  and  the 
people  living  there  were  rich  and  cultured. 
They  had  flocks  and  herds  and  merchant  ves- 
sels and  gold  and  silver  plate,  and  their  name 
was  known  to  every  one  in  the  harbor  town. 
But  for  all  their  possessions  they  were  not 
honored  as  the  wealthy  usually  are,  for  they 
were  of  the  race  of  Israel,  which  in  that  day 
was  scorned  and  shunned.  But  that  mat- 
tered little  to  them.  They  were  happy  in 
their  home  beside  the  Elbe,  and  there,  in  the 
year  of  our  Lord  1809,  a  child  was  born. 
The  moon  gleamed  gloriously  over  the  fresh- 
fallen  snow  on  that  eventful  night,  and  a 
star,  like  an  angel's  eye,  peeped  through  the 
half-open  blind  into  the  room  where  the  baby 
lay.     The  old  nurse  said  it  was  a  good  omen, 

117 


ii8  BOYHOOD  STORIES 

and  meant  that  he  would  be  great  and  happy, 
so  when  the  christening  time  came  they 
named  him  FeHx. 

Twelve  years  passed,  and  the  babe  born 
in  Hamburg  had  become  a  boy  in  Berlin. 
His  home  was  a  splendid  house  in  the  Neue 
Promenade,  set  in  the  heart  of  a  lovely  gar- 
den, and  there  was  only  one  thing  he  liked 
better  than  to  race  through  the  grounds  with 
his  sister  or  to  have  tugs  of  war  with  his 
brothers.  That  was  to  work  at  his  music — 
but  that  comes  later  in  the  story.  He  was 
slender  and  delicate  looking  for  his  years, 
but  could  run  and  leap  and  climb  like  an 
Indian. 

One  autumn  morning  when  the  martens 
were  moving  in  long  black  lines  away  from 
Berlin,  and  now  and  then  a  weird  cry  above 
the  tree  tops  told  that  a  flock  of  storks  was 
making  its  flight  toward  Egypt,  there  was  a 
romp  in  the  Mendelssohn  garden.  Felix  was 
chief  of  a  brigand  band,  and  Fanny  a  cap- 
tive girl  the  brothers  were  carrying  away 
into  the  mountains.  It  was  a  favorite  game 
with  all  of  them,  and  they  played  it  with  a 
vim,  until,  just  as  the  weeping  victim  was 


A  BIT  O'  PINK  VERBENA     119 

being  thrust  into  a  cave  to  be  held  for  ran- 
som, a  maid  called  from  the  doorway. 

*'Come  in,  children,"  she  said.  "Your 
mother  has  a  surprise  for  you." 

Instantly  the  play  stopped  and  there  was  a 
rush  for  the  house.  In  the  living-room  they 
found  a  man  talking  with  the  mother,  and  at 
sight  of  him  came  exclamations  and  merry 
greetings.  It  was  Herr  Zelter,  Felix's 
teacher  and  their  good  comrade,  who  always 
had  a  tale  or  a  riddle,  and  was  never  too  tired 
to  entertain  them.  Fanny  hurried  to  ask  if 
he  would  n't  tell  her  the  answer  to  the  last 
conundrum  he  gave,  because,  try  as  she 
would,  she  could  not  guess  it. 

Everybody  laughed  as  he  told  it,  and 
Fanny  felt  quite  stupid  for  not  having 
thought  of  it  herself,  and  was  sure  the  boys 
would  tease  her.  But  they  did  n't,  because, 
before  they  had  a  chance,  there  came  a  won- 
derful message. 

"Felix  and  I  are  going  to  take  a  vaca- 
tion trip,"  Herr  Zelter  announced.  "What 
think  you  of  a  journey  through  the  Harz 
Mountains  and  into  the  provinces  beyond?" 

A  shout  went  up  from  the  brothers  and  sis- 


120  BOYHOOD  STORIES 

ters,  but  Felix  stood  silent  for  a  moment  and 
looked  in  big-eyed  wonder. 

"The  Harz  Mountains,"  he  said  as  if 
awakened  from  a  dream. 

'*Yes,"  the  mother  spoke  gently.  "Do  you 
want  to  go?" 

"Do  I  want  to  go?"  he  repeated.  ''Oh, 
mother,  it  will  be  splendid." 

Frau  Mendelssohn  smiled.  She  was  a 
beautiful  woman,  with  velvet,  lustrous  eyes, 
and  her  face,  like  her  voice,  was  sweet. 

"I  knew  you  would  like  it,"  she  said  as  she 
stroked  his  soft,  dark  hair.  "You  have 
worked  hard  at  your  music  and  studies,  and 
deserve  a  vacation." 

And  the  brothers  and  sisters  nodded  as  if 
they  thought  so  too. 

"Yes,"  Herr  Zelter  added,  "and  there  may 
be  some  surprises  along  the  way." 

Felix  was  so  excited  over  the  prospect  that 
he  could  n't  eat  his  lunch,  and  Fanny  de- 
clared he  'd  get  as  thin  as  a  fish  worm.  But 
the  picture  she  painted  of  him  did  n't  seem  to 
make  any  difference,  for  although  he  usually 
had  a  healthy  boy's  appetite,  he  had  none  at 
all  now,  and  could  n't  think  of  anything  but 


A  BIT  O'  PINK  VERBENA     121 

wild  mountain  passes,  and  caves,  and  haunted 
glens.  He  had  always  wanted  to  go  into  the 
Harz  country,  for  he  had  heard  many  fan- 
tastic tales  of  the  elves  and  gnomes  peasants 
say  abound  in  that  region  and  play  pranks  on 
all  who  come  their  way,  but  had  no  idea  he 
would  get  there  so  soon.  Sometimes,  how- 
ever, wishes  come  true.  That  very  after- 
noon he  and  his  teacher  left  Berlin,  and  then 
wonderful  things  came  to  pass. 

Once  in  the  highlands  there  was  always 
something  interesting  and  exciting.  One 
day,  as  they  followed  the  forest  path  up  Mt. 
Kyffhauser,  a  woodman  pointed  to  a  grotto 
where  the  country  folk  declare  Frederick 
Barbarossa  sleeps  beside  a  banquet  table. 
Felix  listened,  fascinated,  to  the  mountain 
legend  of  how  the  emperor's  beard  had 
grown  until  it  trails  on  the  ground,  and  will 
continue  to  grow  for  ages  and  ages,  until  it 
has  wound  seven  times  around  the  legs  of  the 
table.  Then  the  monarch  will  awaken,  be- 
stride a  charger,  and  scatter  his  foes,  after 
which  time  there  will  be  peace  as  long  as  the 
world  lasts.  He  was  wild  to  get  inside  the 
cavern,  but  the  peasant  shook  his  head  and 


122  BOYHOOD  STORIES 

said  it  was  impossible.  Only  once  a  twelve- 
month, when  the  cock  crows  with  the  dawn- 
ing of  the  new  year,  can  the  enchanted  grotto 
open,  and  woe  to  him  who  tries  to  force  an 
entrance  at  any  other  time !  So  he  knew  it 
was  useless  to  coax,  but  made  up  his  mind  to 
came  back  some  New  Year's  Eve.  Then 
they  went  to  a  miners'  carnival  and  joined  in 
the  yearly  festivities  of  the  salt  seekers,  after 
which  there  was  a  visit  to  a  clock  making 
village.  One  delight  followed  another  as 
they  journeyed,  until  at  last  they  came  to 
Weimar. 

Felix  was  up  at  dawn  the  next  morning, 
for  they  had  been  stopping  only  one  day  in 
each  place,  and  he  wanted  to  see  as  much  as 
possible  of  this  one.  He  went  with  Gret- 
chen,  the  inn  maid,  when  she  drove  the 
geese  to  pasture,  and  she  told  him  many 
things  about  her  native  town. 

"There  is  the  castle  where  the  Grand  Duke 
lives,"  she  said,  pointing  to  a  great  structure 
whose  towers  rose  above  the  frost-painted 
maples;  "and  beyond  is  the  cathedral  with 
the  chimes." 

Felix  nodded. 


A  BIT  O'  PINK  VERBENA     123 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  "Herr  Zelter  told  me 
about  them.  I  think  Weimar  is  a  wonderful 
place,  because  Goethe  lives  here." 

"Ah,  yes,"  the  girl  said  softly,  "the  mas- 
ter !  Are  n't  you  glad  you  are  going  to  see 
him?" 

Felix  whirled  and  looked  at  her. 

"Going  to  see  him!"  he  exclaimed;  "what 
makes  you  say  that?" 

Gretchen  twisted  her  yellow  braids  into  a 
rope  and  smiled  as  she  answered,  "Because  I 
heard  Herr  Zelter  tell  Frau  Lippe  last  even- 
ing that  you  came  to  Weimar  to  visit 
Goethe." 

Felix  didn't  want  to  hear  another  word. 
He  turned  and  ran  from  the  grazing  place 
along  the  path  that  led  back  to  the  inn,  and 
people  who  saw  him  wondered  why  he  hur- 
ried so.  Over  rock  heaps  and  brambles  he 
bounded  with  long,  agile  leaps,  and  did  not 
stop  until  he  came  to  the  stone  stairway 
leading  up  to  the  entrance  of  Elephant  Inn. 

Herr  Zelter  stood  on  the  topmost  step 
watching  him,  and  at  sight  of  him  the  boy 
gave  a  joyous  exclamation. 

"Is  it  true  ?"  he  cried  as  he  dashed  up  the 


124  BOYHOOD  STORIES 

steps.  "Gretchen  says  we  are  going  to  visit 
Herr  Goethe." 

His  teacher  smiled  and  answered,  "Yes, 
that  is  why  I  brought  you  to  Weimar. 
Did  n't  I  tell  you  in  Berlin  that  there  might 
be  a  surprise?" 

"In  Berlin,"  Felix  repeated.  "Did  you 
know  it  there?" 

"To  be  sure  I  did.  The  master  wrote  me, 
asking  that  I  bring  you  because  he  wants  to 
hear  you  play.  That  is  why  we  started  on 
the  trip,  and  because  you  are  so  fond  of  sur- 
prises, your  mother  and  I  decided  to  keep  it 
a  secret,  so  you  would  enjoy  it  even  more." 

Felix  could  hardly  believe  what  he  heard. 
It  seemed  impossible  the  great  Goethe  could 
have  sent  for  him,  not  because  he  was  accus- 
tomed to  being  shunned  because  he  was  a 
Hebrew  boy,  for  he  never  had  been  made  un- 
happy by  that.  There  was  more  refinement 
and  better  understanding  in  the  Prussian 
capital  than  in  the  harbor  town,  and  the  cul- 
ture and  sterling  qualities  of  the  Mendels- 
sohns  won  them  the  friendship  of  Jew  and 
Gentile  alike.  But  Goethe  was  the  master 
poet  of  Germany,  to  whom  even  princes  gave 


A  BIT  O'  PINK  VERBENA     125 

homage,  and  why  should  he  care  about  the 
playing  of  a  little  Berlin  boy?  All  of  which 
goes  to  show  what  an  unspoiled,  lovable  lad 
Felix  was. 

He  stood  wondering  about  it  until  Herr 
Zelter  said,  "Go  and  make  yourself  presenta- 
ble, for  we  start  in  half  an  hour." 

It  was  not  necessary  to  tell  him  a  second 
time.  He  ran  upstairs  and  changed  his 
clothes  so  rapidly  that  long  before  the  half 
hour  was  over  he  was  waiting  for  Herr  Zel- 
ter in  the  hall. 

Just  as  they  started,  Gretchen,  the  inn 
maid,  came  running  after  them,  waving  a 
cluster  of  pink  blossoms. 

''Here,"  she  called  as  Felix  turned  toward 
her.  ''Give  these  to  the  master.  Frau 
Lippe  let  me  take  them  from  the  house  box, 
and  there  are  no  lovelier  ones  in  Weimar." 

And  she  handed  him  a  cluster  of  verbena, 
each  petal  of  which  was  perfectly  unfolded 
and  pink  as  the  heart  of  a  conch  shell. 

Felix  never  forgot  that  walk  as  he  and 
Zelter  went  along  the  maple-skirted  promen- 
ade toward  the  home  of  Goethe,  never  for- 
got the  splendid  houses  of  the  great,  the  ducal 


126  BOYHOOD  STORIES 

palace,  the  cathedral,  the  peasant  cottages, 
and  the  wind-whipped  fields  they  passed  on 
the  way,  and  years  afterward  described  them 
as  vividly  as  if  they  had  been  beheld  only  a 
half  hour  before,  for  every  sight  in  Weimar 
seemed  to  be  painted  on  his  brain  in  unfading 
colors.  He  walked  eagerly,  expectantly  be- 
side his  teacher,  and  finally  they  came  to  a 
great  house,  rambling  like  a  Saxon  citadel, 
and  heavily  windowed  on  every  side.  As 
they  went  in  at  the  gate  a  voice  from  among 
the  trees  called,  "Zelter !  Have  you  brought 
the  Mendelssohn  boy  from  Berlin?" 

A  heavy,  rather  short  man,  with  blue, 
piercing  eyes  and  hair  softly  flecked  with 
gray,  came  down  the  path  to  meet  them. 
Then  Felix  heard  his  teacher  saying,  "This 
is  Herr  Goethe,"  and  he  knew  he  was  face  to 
face  with  the  poet  all  Germany  declared  was 
greater  than  a  king. 

Impulsively  he  took  the  wrinkled  hand  out- 
stretched to  meet  his  own,  and  presented  the 
verbena  Gretchen  gave  him.  His  blue  eyes 
were  luminous  as  the  master  smiled  down  on 
the  blossoms,  saying,  "Thank  you,  boy,  and 


A  BIT  O'  PINK  VERBENA     127 

thank  the  Httle  inn  maid  too.  I  shall  keep 
them  and  remember  you  both." 

Suddenly,  from  the  cathedral  tower,  came 
the  notes  of  an  old  German  choral,  and  a 
Kyrie  Eleison,  sweet  as  an  angel's  song, 
sounded  across  the  garden.  Felix  stood  like 
one  entranced,  drinking  in  the  beauty  of  the 
music  and  forgetting  everything  but  the 
glory  of  the  chimes.  Perhaps  he  would  have 
stayed  there  for  a  long  time  in  a  sort  of 
revery,  but  the  master,  who  had  been  watch- 
ing him  curiously,  laid  his  hand  on  his  shoul- 
der and  said,  "Let  us  go  into  the  house  now, 
for  I  want  to  hear  music  sweeter  than  that  of 
the  chimes." 

Then  Felix  remembered  what  Herr  Zelter 
had  told  him,  and  wondered  if  the  men  could 
hear  his  heart  beating.  It  seemed  they  must, 
for  joy  had  set  it  thumping  like  a  hammer, 
because  he  knew  the  master  meant  to  ask  him 
to  play. 

Half  an  hour  later  the  drawing-room  of 
the  Goethe  house  was  flooded  with  light. 
The  master  and  Frau  Goethe,  Fraulein 
Ulrike,  her  sister,  Herr  Zelter,  the  Schopen- 


128  BOYHOOD  STORIES 

hauers,  and  several  other  friends  sat  side  by 
side.  But  no  one  spoke.  No  one  thought  of 
anything  or  heard  anything  but  exquisite 
music  exquisitely  rendered.  Was  it  an  an- 
gel orchestra  dispensing  such  sweet  sounds? 
No,  it  came  from  the  piano  at  the  touch  of 
a  brown-haired  boy.  Little  wonder  they 
seemed  bound  by  enchantment  as  they  lis- 
tened. Little  wonder  smiles  and  tears 
played  hide-and-seek  in  the  poet's  eyes,  for 
Felix  Mendelssohn  Bartholody,  then  just 
turned  thirteen,  was  playing  a  fugue  from 
Bach. 

He  finished,  and  Goethe  went  over  and  laid 
his  hand  on  the  dark  head. 

"You  have  given  me  an  hour  of  pleasure," 
he  said  tenderly.  ''What  can  I  do  to  reward 
you?" 

Felix  looked  at  him,  as  if  wondering  what 
to  request.  Then  a  smile  flashed  across  his 
face  and  he  spoke  in  a  low  voice,  "Sire,  I 
should  be  glad  if  you  would  give  me  a  kiss." 

And  the  gray-haired  immortal  bent  and 
kissed  the  brow  of  him  who  was  destined  to 
become  an  immortal,  while  Zelter  and  the 
others  applauded,  and  bonny  Adele  Schopen- 


A  BIT  O'  PINK  VERBENA     129 

hauer  set  a  wreath  of  leaves  on  the  brown 
head. 

*To  crown  you,  Hke  a  victor!"  she  ex- 
claimed. 

And  the  next  day  Felix  wrote  home  to  his 
mother  in  Berlin,  "After  that  we  all  had  sup- 
per together,  and  I  sat  on  the  master's  right. 
Now,  every  morning,  I  have  a  kiss  from  the 
author  of  'Faust'  and  'Werther,'  and  two 
kisses  from  friend  and  father  Goethe. 
Think  of  that!" 

Just  at  dawn  several  mornings  later  Zelter 
shook  Felix  out  of  a  sleep. 

"  Get  up  quickly!"  he  exclaimed.  "Don't 
you  remember  that  to-day  the  Grand  Duke 
and  Duchess  and  the  hereditary  Grand  Duke 
are  coming  to  visit?  Bestir  yourself,  and 
don't  lie  there  as  if  nothing  extraordinary  is 
about  to  happen." 

The  lad  looked  up,  blinking,  for  he  was 
just  like  other  boys,  and  not  eager  to  get  out 
of  bed  in  the  morning. 

"Y-yes,"  he  muttered,  "but  that  is  n't  as 
wonderful  as  being  here  alone  with  Goethe. 
Mother  says  no  one,  not  even  a  king,  is  as 
great  as  he." 


I30  BOYHOOD  STORIES 

And  Zelter  nodded  agreement,  for  he,  too, 
believed  that.  But  he  hurried  the  boy  out  of 
bed  and  into  his  clothes,  and  soon  afterward 
the  royal  visitors  arrived. 

Of  course  they  wanted  to  hear  Felix  play, 
for  they  had  been  told  of  the  concert  that 
ended  with  a  fugue  from  Bach,  but  even  if 
they  had  known  nothing  about  it  they  would 
have  been  eager  to  listen  to  his  music,  for 
Felix  Mendelssohn  Bartholody,  even  at  that 
time,  was  known  throughout  Germany  as  a 
wonder  child.  Great  folk  in  Berlin,  as  well 
as  strangers  who  visited  the  Prussian  capital, 
delighted  in  going  to  his  home  in  the  Neue 
Promenade,  for  Abraham  and  Leah  Men- 
delssohn, his  father  and  mother,  were  among 
the  brilliant  scholars  of  their  day.  The 
charm  of  their  conversation  was  a  magnet 
to  draw  the  gifted,  and  their  reception  hall 
became  one  of  the  noted  German  salons. 
Painters,  musicians,  scholars,  learned  men, 
and  beautiful  women  gathered  there,  and 
whenever  guests  came  Felix  played,  some- 
times alone,  sometimes  in  duet  with  his  sister 
Fanny,  and  always  his  hearers  wondered  if  it 
was  really  a  child  who  made  such  lovely 


A  BIT  O'  PINK  VERBENA     131 

music.  They  took  word  of  his  attainments 
to  their  homes  and  their  friends,  and  al- 
though he  never  had  appeared  in  pubHc,  the 
story  of  the  Hebrew  prodigy  spread.  Thus 
Goethe  heard  of  his  genius,  and  became  so 
interested  in  the  lad  that  he  asked  Zelter  to 
bring  him  to  Weimar.  So  of  course  the 
Grand  Duke  and  Duchess  would  have  wanted 
to  hear  him,  even  if  they  had  known  nothing 
of  that  memorable  Sunday  night. 

Well,  Felix  played.  He  began  at  eleven 
in  the  morning,  and  finished  at  ten  that  night, 
stopping  to  rest  only  two  hours  during  that 
long  period.  The  royal  visitors  were  de- 
lighted, and  said  such  charming  things  about 
his  genius  that  he  'd  have  had  his  head 
turned  if  he  had  not  been  a  very  sensible  boy. 
But  he  had  a  wonderful  mother,  and  praise 
from  the  royal  family  did  not  mean  half  as 
much  to  him  as  praise  from  the  poet  meant. 
He  was  glad  he  had  pleased  them,  for  they 
were  pleasant  and  kind,  but  most  of  all  he 
was  glad  he  had  pleased  Goethe. 

The  days  passed  joyously,  with  games  and 
sports  in  the  garden  and  quiet  hours  at  the 
piano,  with  the  poet  sitting  close  by  listening 


132  BOYHOOD  STORIES 

while  he  played.  These  were  times  of  rare 
delight  to  Felix. 

"Every  afternoon,"  he  wrote  home  to  his 
mother,  *'he  opens  the  piano  and  says,  'Now 
make  a  little  noise  for  me.'  And  that  voice 
of  his!  Mother,  the  sound  of  it  is  won- 
derful. He  can  shout  like  ten  thousand 
warriors,  yet  when  he  speaks  to  me  it  seems 
very  soft  and  low." 

Gladly  he  would  have  stayed  on  in  Weimar 
for  weeks  and  months,  but  that  could  not  be. 
A  fortnight  after  his  arrival  he  went  home 
with  Zelter,  bearing  with  him  recollections 
of  a  never-to-be-forgotten  visit,  and  leaving 
behind  with  the  poet  memories  that  were 
sweet. 

Then  swiftly  sped  the  days,  and  wonderful 
triumphs  they  brought  to  Felix  Mendelssohn 
Bartholody.  He  began  playing  in  public,  at 
concerts  and  musicfests  of  the  Prussian  cap- 
ital, and  people  went  by  thousands  to  see 
the  boy  and  listen  to  his  music,  to  have  a  good 
look  at  the  lad  who  was  the  pet  and  favorite 
of  Goethe.  And  how  he  played  at  those 
memorable  concerts,  sometimes  difficult  num- 
bers from  the  masters,  sometimes  melodies  of 


A  BIT  O'  PINK  VERBENA     133 

his  own  composing,  always  with  feeling,  al- 
ways with  exquisite  finish,  and  always  with 
light  divine  in  his  gleaming  eyes. 

Then,  between  public  appearances,  there 
were  joyful  days  at  home  with  his  sister 
Fanny  in  the  Garden  House,  a  place  as  beau- 
tiful and  sweet  as  could  be  imagined.  A 
fountain  plashed  by  the  window,  and  all  sum- 
mer long  birds  held  concert  in  the  linden 
boughs.  Here  together  brother  and  sister 
read  Shakespeare's  "Midsummer  Night's 
Dream,"  and  here,  when  seventeen,  Felix 
composed  the  music  suggested  by  that  fairy 
play,  which,  had  he  never  created  another 
melody,  would  have  made  his  name  immortal. 

After  that,  other  works  followed  in  rapid 
succession.  He  loved  his  music  and  kept  at 
it  constantly,  resting  occasionally  by  taking 
a  trip  into  some  quaint  nook  of  Germany, 
traveling  on  foot  in  the  vagabond  way. 
Then  he  would  return  to  work,  composing 
every  day,  with  Fanny,  his  gifted  sister,  and 
his  mother,  who  were  his  first  and  best 
teachers,  auditors  and  critics.  If  they  pro- 
nounced a  work  good  he  was  satisfied,  and 
no  taunts  from  envious  but  less  gifted  musi- 


134  BOYHOOD  STORIES 

cians  could  shake  his  faith  in  the  worth  of  a 
composition  when  it  had  been  secured  by  the 
approval  of  those  at  home. 

Thus  Felix  Mendelssohn  Bartholody,  at  an 
age  when  most  boys  are  thinking  of  begin- 
ning their  life-work,  was  secure  and  famous 
in  his.  England  called  him,  and  France  and 
Austria,  and  honors  innumerable  were 
heaped  upon  him.  But  they  did  not  shrivel 
and  warp  his  soul.  He  was  the  child  of 
Leah  Mendelssohn,  that  rare,  gentle  woman 
whose  fragrant  nature  and  brilliant  intellect 
would  have  made  her  home  the  retreat  of  the 
great  of  Berlin  even  if  it  had  not  housed  a 
wonder  child,  and  he  never  forgot  the  lessons 
learned  during  those  early  days.  His  nature 
was  as  lovable  as  his  genius  was  great,  and 
the  beggar  in  the  streets,  the  child  in  the 
market  place,  rich,  poor,  and  mighty  alike, 
received  a  pleasant  word  and  kindly  smile 
from  him.  The  brown  hair  Goethe  loved 
had  turned  black  now,  but  his  eyes  were  as 
blue  and  tender,  his  soul  was  as  sweet  and 
serene  as  in  those  distant  Weimar  days. 

Like  Mozart  and  Chopin,  this  great  master 
died  early,  before  he  was  forty-five,  yet  in  his 


A  BIT  O'  PINK  VERBENA     135 

short  career  enriching  the  world  as  much  as 
if  he  had  Hved  through  many  Hfetimes,  for 
his  soul  was  pure,  his  heart  was  kind,  and  his 
genius  was  supreme.  Goethe  loved  him  in 
childhood,  Germany  adored  him  in  manhood, 
and  the  world  reveres  his  memory  now 
that  his  work  is  done.  It  is  sweet  to  think 
that  the  great  are  always  simple,  unassuming 
as  little  children,  tender  of  memories,  loyal  to 
friends,  gentle  and  compassionate  toward  the 
unfortunate.  This  was  Felix  Mendelssohn 
Bartholody,  the  child  of  Leah.  He  never 
forgot  those  Weimar  days,  never  ceased  to 
think  of  the  great  poet  as  "friend  and  father 
Goethe."  How  do  we  know?  Because 
after  he  went  to  his  rest,  they  found  among 
his  treasured  things  a  bunch  of  dead  stuff 
that  once  had  been  a  nosegay,  blackened  and 
withered  to  the  color  of  earth,  and  seeming 
as  if  it  never  could  have  been  a  cluster  of 
blossoms.  It  was  the  verbena  cut  from  the 
window  box  by  the  golden-haired  inn  maid 
and  given  by  Felix  to  the  author  of  "Faust." 
Upon  the  death  of  the  poet  it  was  returned 
to  the  musician,  who  treasured  it  with  memo- 
ries of  those  fragrant  days,  and  for  years  it 


136  BOYHOOD  STORIES 

remained  among  the  Mendelssohn  relics,  a 
memorial  of  the  day  when  two  of  the  world's 
immortals,  one  gray  and  crowned  with  the 
laurels  of  achievement,  the  other  with  his 
childhood  still  about  him,  stood  in  a  garden 
at  Weimar,  while  November  winds  whistled 
through  the  trees,  and  cathedral  bells  chimed 
out  a  Kyrle  Eleison. 

And  what  of  the  Hamburgers  who  had 
scorned  his  people  because  they  were  of  the 
race  of  Israel?  They  seemed  to  have  for- 
gotten that,  or  to  have  grown  ashamed  of  it, 
and  were  proud  indeed  of  the  fact  that  Felix 
was  born  among  them.  They  spoke  fondly 
of  "unser  Mendelssohn,"  and  never  in  the 
history  of  the  harbor  town  was  there  such  a 
storm  of  indignation  as  when  some  of  the 
people  of  Prussia  tried  to  make  it  appear 
that  he  was  a  native  of  Berlin. 

*'No,  he  is  ours,"  declared  their  northern 
neighbors,  *'for  he  was  born  among  us." 

And  so  these  great  capitals  disputed  and 
contended  for  the  honor  of  having  cradled  a 
Hebrew  baby,  just  as,  long,  long  ago,  seven 
Grecian  cities  each  claimed  to  have  been  the 
birthplace  of  a  blind  old  man. 


A  SHEPHERD  LAD  OF  TUSCANY 


VIII 
A  SHEPHERD  LAD  OF  TUSCANY 

APRIL  had  come,  bringing  flower  and 
bird  weather  to  the  sweet  ItaHan  land 
of  Tuscany,  and  even  along  the  Apennine 
slopes,  where  the  blossom  carpet  was  not  so 
heavy  as  in  the  sunny  lowlands,  buttercups 
and  wild  daffodils  made  golden  rugs  beneath 
the  ilex-trees.  They  stretched  away  in  shin- 
ing patches  to  the  vine-draped  Fiesole  hills, 
from  which  other  rugs  of  gayer  bloom  and 
richer  verdure  sloped  down  to  the  silver 
Arno.  Blue  skies  above,  bird  song  and  blos- 
som breath  sweetening  the  air,  it  was  surely 
a  time  for  merrymaking  and  joyous  words. 
Yet  two  boys  in  charge  of  a  flock  on  the  hills 
above  Vespignano  looked  at  each  other  with 
excited  faces,  and  the  older  one  spoke  so 
angrily  to  his  companion  that  the  lad  winced 
as  if  struck. 

"You  have  so  little  courage  that  even  if 
you  go,  you  won't  amount  to  anything.     So 

139 


140  BOYHOOD  STORIES 

stay  here,  because  you  're  not  brave  enough 
to  try  the  world !" 

The  dark  eyes  of  the  younger  were  wide 
with  hurt  surprise. 

"Do  you  mean  that  you  think  me  a  coward, 
PasquaH  ?"  he  asked,  his  sensitive  lips  quiver- 
ing as  if  it  required  an  effort  to  keep  back  the 
tears. 

Pasquali  shrugged  his  shoulders.  He  was 
fond  of  Giotto,  and  had  not  meant  to  grieve 
him,  yet  he  felt  provoked  because  he  did  not 
agree  to  his  plan. 

"Not  exactly  that,"  he  replied  more  gently. 
"But  can't  you  s^e  that,  as  long  as  we  stay 
here  in  Vespignano,  we  must  go  on  herding 
sheep,  while  yonder  in  the  city  there  is  a 
chance  of  becoming  rich?" 

And  as  he  spoke  he  pointed  down  to  where 
Florence  lay  in  her  valley  beside  the  Arno, 
all  white  and  gold  against  the  blue  of  the 
Lucca  mountains,  like  a  bit  of  fairy-land. 

"It  is  beautiful  there,  Giotto,"  he  urged, 
"with  marble  palaces  instead  of  peasant  huts, 
and  the  people  wear  fine  clothes,  and  are 
happy.  Come  along,  and  be  something  big- 
ger than  a  shepherd." 


SHEPHERD  LAD  OF  TUSCANY     141 

For  a  minute,  Giotto's  face  was  afire  with 
anticipation.  He  knew  that  Cimabue,  the 
greatest  of  Italian  painters,  would  come  soon 
to  decorate  the  castello,  and  that  the  count 
was  sending  men  to  the  city  next  day  to  be 
his  escort.  For  weeks,  Pasquali  had  been 
urging  him  to  run  away  and  join  the  caval- 
cade beyond  Fiesole,  from  which  point  they 
could  travel  along  together,  and,  as  members 
of  the  noble's  train,  gain  admission  to  Flor- 
ence, which  would  not  be  possible  for  two 
boys  alone.  Pasquali  had  a  golden  flow  of 
words,  and  so  dazzling  was  his  picture  of  the 
luxurious  life  they  might  lead  there,  that 
Giotto  was  almost  persuaded.  But  it  was 
only  for  a  minute.  Then  he  shook  his  head, 
and  answered:  "No,  Father  needs  me  here. 
Besides,  I  have  no  money,  and  even  if  it 
does  seem  cowardly,  I  am  afraid  to  go  to  the 
city  without  even  a  lira." 

Pasquali  laughed,  not  pleasantly  but  with 
a  sneer,  as  if  to  mock  the  fears  of  his  com- 
panion. He  was  two  years  older,  and  so 
large  and  strong  that  he  looked  like  a  man. 
Little  he  hesitated  about  leaving  Vespignano, 
and  was  so  confident  of  his  ability  to  make 


142  BOYHOOD  STORIES 

his  way  anywhere  that  he  pressed  his  timid 
friend  with  promises  to  look  out  for  him. 

"You  can  send  money  home  to  your  father, 
and  even  if  it  is  a  Httle  hard  at  first,  anything 
will  be  better  than  this  lonely  life  of  herd- 
ing." 

But  as  Giotto  looked  at  the  white-fleeced 
sheep  around  him,  and  then  at  the  village  be- 
low, he  thought  differently.  He  saw  his 
grandfather,  too  old  to  follow  a  herd  now, 
laughing  with  some  of  the  children,  as  if  all 
the  world  were  glad,  and  his  sister  Teresa, 
dark-eyed  and  graceful,  go  singing  into  the 
hut  where  his  grandmother  sat  spinning. 
Just  beyond,  white-haired  Armando,  bent 
and  feeble  too,  hobbled  along  on  his  stick, 
beckoning  and  smiling  to  those  who  hailed 
him  as  he  passed,  while  gay  young  Serafino, 
who  had  broken  a  leg  a  fortnight  before 
while  rescuing  a  lamb  from  a  precipice,  was 
taking  the  sun  and  trying  to  gain  strength 
to  go  back  to  his  flock.  Shepherd  folk  all 
were  they,  and  there  were  no  merrier  hearts 
in  Tuscany.  So  if  those  could  be  happy  who 
had  never  seen  the  city  except  as  they  looked 
down  on  its  gleaming  towers  from  the  hills 


SHEPHERD  LAD  OF  TUSCANY     143 

where  they  pastured  their  flocks,  it  didn't 
seem  a  bad  life  after  all.  The  ilex-tufted 
slopes  that  Pasquali  was  so  eager  to  leave 
were  home  to  Giotto.  He  was  born  in  a  hut 
below,  and,  as  far  back  as  his  memory  went, 
could  look  out  of  its  northern  window  on  the 
Apennines.  And  there  had  always  been  the 
music  of  the  Mugone  stream,  now  yellow  and 
muddy,  now  shimmering  like  a  silver  ribbon 
flung  down  from  the  peaks,  as  it  hurried 
away  to  join  the  Arno.  Pasquali  was  an 
orphan,  and  had  lived  in  many  places,  one  of 
which  was  as  dear  as  another.  But  to  the 
boy  who  had  never  been  beyond  the  grazing 
lands,  there  was  only  one  home  spot,  and 
that  was  in  Vespignano.  Why,  then,  should 
he  leave  it  for  a  place  where  he  would  be 
friendless  and  might  perhaps  have  to  go 
hungry?  And  that  question  he  put  to  Pas- 
quali. 

''Besides,"  he  continued,  ''herding  does  n't 
seem  so  dreadful.  I  love  my  sheep,  and 
often  when  the  hours  seem  long  I  make  pic- 
tures in  the  sand.  Then  I  forget  that  I  am 
lonely." 

Pasquali   sneered.     "Stay   on   and  be   a 


144  BOYHOOD  STORIES 

shepherd  if  you  think  the  hfe  so  fine.  But 
look  out  that  the  count  never  catches  you 
drawing  when  you  are  out  with  the  sheep, 
for  he  will  tell  your  father,  and  then  there 
will  be  trouble.  But  I  mean  to  be  a  great 
man,  and  do  something  finer  than  follow  a 
flock." 

And  he  strode  away  before  Giotto  could 
tell  him  that  once,  when  he  was  drawing,  the 
count  had  come  by,  and,  instead  of  making 
trouble,  had  seemed  much  interested. 

Pasquali  kept  his  word  and  went  away 
that  night,  and,  in  the  days  that  followed, 
Giotto  wondered  much  about  him,  hoping  he 
would  be  successful  in  the  city.  Of  course 
no  word  came  back,  for  at  that  time  letters 
had  to  go  by  courier,  which  cost  so  much  that 
only  the  rich  sent  messages,  while  the  poor 
had  to  be  satisfied  with  wondering  and  hop- 
ing. He  did  not  doubt  that  the  lad  would  be 
able  to  make  his  way,  for  he  was  so  big  and 
strong  that  of  course  people  would  give  him 
work,  and  Giotto  even  planned  for  the  time 
when  he  might  appeal  to  him. 

''When  I  am  older  and  can  earn  more,"  he 
mused,  "I  will  go  and  ask  Pasquali  to  help 


SHEPHERD  LAD  OF  TUSCANY  145 

me  find  work;  for,  if  I  send  a  few  lire 
home  each  week,  it  will  not  be  hard  for 
Father." 

For  little  did  he  dream  that  a  time  would 
come  when  he  would  not  need  Pasquali's  aid, 
and  that  Florence  would  be  as  proud  of  him 
as  of  her  most  illustrious  prince. 

Several  days  later,  as  he  ate  his  lunch  on 
the  hillside,  he  heard  the  blare  of  trumpets 
announcing  the  arrival  of  Cimabue  the 
painter,  and  saw  the  train  go  up  to  the  castle 
gate.  The  splendidly  groomed  horses  held 
their  plumed  heads  high,  while  gold  and  sil- 
ver mountings  on  saddle  and  bridle  made 
them  seem  like  fairy  steeds.  Banners  and 
pennants  floated,  and  brighter  even  than  the 
scarlet  coats  of  the  attendants  was  the  art- 
ist's crimson  mantle ;  and,  as  the  solitary  lad 
watched  the  gorgeous  cavalcade  go  into  the 
courtyard  and  out  of  sight,  he  thought  that 
to  be  a  painter  must  be  better  than  to  be  a 
prince.  Then,  taking  up  a  piece  of  slate  he 
had  found  that  morning,  he  began  making 
pictures  of  his  sheep. 

Everything  else  went  out  of  his  mind.  He 
forgot  that  he  was  a  peasant  and  lived  in  a 


146  BOYHOOD  STORIES 

poor  hut,  forgot  everything  in  his  love  of 
sketching,  and,  as  soon  as  one  picture  was 
finished,  he  rubbed  it  out  and  made  another. 
Sometimes  a  lamb  came  up,  caressing  him 
with  its  velvet  nose,  or  a  soft-eyed  ewe  lay 
down  at  his  feet.  But  he  did  not  know  it, 
nor  did  he  hear  hoofs  advancing  from  be- 
hind, or  see  two  riders  alight  from  their 
mounts.  He  was  still  lost  in  his  drawing 
when  a  voice  said,  "This  is  the  shepherd  lad 
of  whom  I  told  you,  the  one  who  makes  pic- 
tures in  the  sand." 

Giotto  jumped  in  alarm.  He  knew  it  was 
the  count  who  spoke,  and  feared  that  he 
would  be  angry  because  he  had  not  greeted 
him  as  the  low-born  should  those  of  rank. 
But  the  nobleman  was  not  displeased,  for  he 
thought  of  something  finer  than  social  dis- 
tinction, and,  taking  the  slate  from  the 
weather-browned  hand,  he  gave  it  to  his  com- 
panion. 

''See,  Cimabue!"  he  said.  "This  is  how 
he  passes  his  lonely  hours." 

Giotto  caught  the  name  and  it  thrilled  him. 
Cimabue!  The  king  of  Italian  painters! 
He  would  laugh  at  such  poor  sketching. 


SHEPHERD  LAD  OF  TUSCANY  147 

"Oh,  sire,  it  is  not  worth  looking  at!"  he 
exclaimed.  "I  did  it  just  to  keep  from  being 
lonely." 

But  Giovanni  Cimabue  did  look  at  the 
slate,  and,  as  he  examined  it,  spoke  some 
words  to  the  count  that  the  boy  did  not  un- 
derstand. Then  he  asked,  "Would  you  like 
to  be  a  painter?" 

**A  painter!"  Giotto  repeated.  "Oh,  yes, 
sire.  But  that  is  impossible,  for  Father  is 
poor,  and  I  must  tend  sheep." 

"Opportunities  come  to  those  who  deserve 
them,"  the  great  man  replied,  "and  there  is 
something  for  you  beside  a  shepherd's  life." 

Then  the  two  rode  away,  and,  as  they 
went,  Giotto  wondered  what  Cimabue  meant. 
But  he  had  not  very  long  to  wonder,  for  that 
same  night  they  came  to  the  peasant  hut  to 
ask  that  he  might  study  painting.  The  dec- 
orations at  the  castle  would  require  some 
weeks,  and  when  the  artist  returned  to  Flor- 
ence he  would  take  the  lad  into  his  workshop. 
At  first  it  seemed  impossible  that  such  a 
lovely  thing  could  come  to  a  herd  boy,  but 
when  his  father  gave  his  word,  and  thanked 
both  count  and  painter,  he  wondered  what 


148  BOYHOOD  STORIES 

Pasquali  would  think,  Pasquali,  who  had 
taunted  him  with  being  too  much  of  a  coward 
to  try  his  fortune  in  the  city. 

Giotto  did  not  lead  his  sheep  to  the  slopes 
next  day,  nor  any  day  thereafter.  But  all 
through  the  golden  summer,  when  around 
Fiesole  were  billows  of  many-colored  bloom, 
and  his  own  hills  of  Vespignano  were  painted 
with  orange  and  russet,  he  worked  with 
Cimabue  at  the  castle.  Every  morning, 
when  the  sunrise  tints  still  hung  like  flaming 
poppies  along  the  peaks,  he  went  from  the 
hut  in  the  village,  and  he  came  back  again  at 
night  to  dream  of  his  brushes  and  colors. 
The  count  let  one  of  his  own  shepherds  tend 
the  Bondone  flock,  so  his  studies  brought  no 
hardship  to  his  people,  and,  as  all  the  villa- 
gers loved  him,  so  all  were  glad  that  he  was 
to  be  a  painter. 

Meanwhile,  in  fair  Florence,  Pasquali  was 
learning  that  the  city  is  a  monster  waiting 
to  devour  those  who  approach  her  friend- 
less and  empty-handed.  Day  after  day  he 
tramped  the  streets  from  one  shop  to  another, 
and  up  to  doors  of  great  houses  where  many 
servants  were  employed,  looking  for  work, 


Tlien   (jiiitto    went   tu    the   citv 


SHEPHERD  LAD  OF  TUSCANY  151 

and  always  he  was  met  with  the  question, 
''What  can  you  do?" 

*ln  Vespignano  I  was  a  shepherd,"  he 
would  reply;  "but  the  life  was  dull,  so  I 
came  away." 

"Better  go  back,"  those  disposed  to  be  kind 
would  say.  "The  city  is  no  place  for  country 
lads."  While  others  drove  him  away  with 
angry  words. 

For  weeks  he  slept  under  the  sky  and  ate 
the  bread  of  charity.  Then,  sick  and  dis- 
couraged, he  started  back  to  Vespignano. 

Giotto,  on  his  way  home  from  the  castle 
one  evening,  saw  the  weary,  foot-sore  lad  go 
toward  the  hut  that  had  once  been  his  home, 
and  wondered  if  it  could  be  Pasquali,  who 
had  been  so  eager  to  get  away.  Hunger  had 
made  hollows  in  his  cheeks,  and  only  the  soft, 
dark  eyes,  and  the  hair  curling  about  the 
brow  in  the  old  way  made  him  sure  it  was 
his  friend. 

"Pasquali  mio,"  he  called,  falling  into  the 
tender  speech  of  the  old  shepherd  days; 
"why  are  you  back?  Didn't  you  like  the 
city?" 

"The  city!"  the  boy  repeated  in  horror. 


152  BOYHOOD  STORIES 

*'It  is  a  black  hole  of  misery  to  those  without 
money.  It  were  better  had  I  stayed  here 
with  the  sheep,  because  now  perhaps  I  can- 
not get  any  sheep  to  tend." 

Giotto  forgot  that  the  boy  had  scorned  him 
for  not  being  brave  enough  to  try  the  world. 
He  thought  only  that  his  friend  was  troubled, 
and  that  he  wanted  to  help  him. 

*'I  am  sure  you  can,"  he  comforted. 
"Come  home  with  me  to-night,  and  to-mor- 
row I  will  ask  the  count  to  give  you  work." 

So  the  two  went  together  to  the  hut,  where 
the  shepherd  fare  seemed  good  indeed  to  the 
discouraged  lad ;  and  the  next  day,  although 
he  had  all  the  help  he  really  needed,  the  count 
pitied  the  runaway  and  took  him  back. 

The  frosts  came,  and  the  chestnut-trees  on 
the  slopes  wore  coats  of  bronze.  The  walls 
of  the  castello  had  been  beautified  until  noth- 
ing was  left  to  be  done,  and  the  painter  pre- 
pared to  leave  Vespignano.  Then  Giotto 
went  to  the  city,  the  same  Florence  in  which 
Pasquali  had  urged  him  to  seek  his  fortune 
in  the  spring.  But  he  did  not  steal  away  like 
a  thief  in  the  night.  He  went  instead  as  one 
who  departs  with  honor.     All  the  shepherds 


SHEPHERD  LAD  OF  TUSCANY  153 

of  the  valley  met  to  say  good-by,  and  the 
count  himself,  and  Cimabue,  the  painter, 
rode  beside  him.  No  knight  faring  forth  to 
conquest  ever  rode  with  higher  hopes  in  his 
breast,  and  few  have  gone  to  greater  hon- 
ors. Hard  work  awaited  him  in  the  studio 
of  the  master,  for  Cimabue  was  an  exacting 
teacher,  and  knew  that,  no  matter  how  gifted, 
one  does  not  excel  except  by  painstaking, 
persistent  effort  of  both  hand  and  brain. 
But  he  was  an  appreciative  teacher  as  well, 
and  nothing  pleased  him  as  much  as  some 
new  evidence  of  genius  in  the  boy  in  whom 
he  had  such  great  faith. 

Once  he  went  away  from  the  workshop, 
leaving  Giotto  busy  there.  The  boy  kept  to 
his  painting  for  a  while,  then,  stopping  to 
look  at  the  half-finished  work  of  his  master, 
a  mischievous  idea  possessed  him.  Seizing 
a  brush,  he  painted  a  fly  on  the  nose  of  the 
figure  on  the  canvas,  and  so  lifelike  was  his 
portrayal,  that,  when  Cimabue  returned,  he 
tried  to  brush  it  away  with  his  hand,  before 
he  discovered  the  trick  his  pupil  had  played 
on  him.  Yet  he  was  not  angry,  for  it  was 
but  another  proof  that  the  boy  kept  his  eyes 


154  BOYHOOD  STORIES 

open  and  studied  everything  around  him, 
without  doing  which  no  one  can  hope  to  be  a 
painter. 

Years  passed,  and  Florence  became  a 
fairer  and  more  glorious  city  because  a  peas- 
ant lad  from  the  northern  hills  had  taken  up 
his  abode  there.  He  became  an  architect  as 
well  as  a  painter,  and,  whenever  a  new  palace 
was  to  be  builded  or  an  old  one  needed  beau- 
tifying, it  was  Giotto  who  was  chosen  for  the 
work,  because  no  one  in  Italy  wrought  such 
wonders  as  he.  The  lords  of  the  land  called 
him  from  one  city  to  another.  Naples,  Pisa, 
Ravenna,  Assisi,  and  even  imperial  Rome, 
clamored  for  a  show  of  his  genius;  and, 
whenever  he  gave  his  time  to  a  piece  of  work, 
it  was  as  if  a  fairy  hand  had  touched  it. 

But  in  Florence  his  heart  seemed  to  rest, 
and  there  he  put  forth  his  noblest  effort. 
Those  who  followed  strove  to  make  their 
work  as  fine  as  his,  so  the  city  of  the  Arno 
came  to  be  a  place  of  wonderful  achievement. 

The  story  of  its  loveliness  has  spread  to 
every  land,  and  to-day  it  is  the  treasure-house 
of  Italy,  possessing  an  untold  wealth  of  art 


SHEPHERD  LAD  OF  TUSCANY     155 

and  some  of  the  noblest  buildings  in  the 
world,  the  most  wonderful  among  them  hav- 
ing been  glorified  by  the  hand  of  Giotto. 

''Giotto's  Campanile,"  men  still  call  the 
matchless  bell-tower  that  rises  beside  the 
Duomo.  But  of  the  thousands  who  go  there 
to  see  it,  only  a  few  know  that  he  who 
planned  and  partly  built  it  was  once  a  shep- 
herd whom  Cimabue  found  drawing  on  a 
piece  of  slate  as  he  tended  his  flocks  on  the 
hills  of  Tuscany. 


THE  BORDER  WONDERFUL 


IX 

THE  BORDER  WONDERFUL 

IN  the  workshop  of  Josefo  the  goldsmith, 
black-eyed  Andrea  was  assorting  the 
tools.  There  was  no  one  to  talk  to,  and  he 
did  n't  like  the  task  a  bit.  He  wanted  to  be 
out  in  the  sunshine  among  the  pomegran- 
ates and  purple-starred  myrtles,  where 
he  knew  Beatrice  was  waiting  for  the 
procession,  for  he  was  only  seven  years 
old,  and  this  would  be  the  gayest  carni- 
val time  of  all  the  year.  But  boys  in 
his  day  began  their  life-work  very  early,  and 
it  was  already  several  months  since  he  had 
been  apprenticed  to  a  goldsmith,  who  be- 
lieved not  at  all  that  one  should  romp  when 
a  trade  was  to  be  learned.  So  there  was 
nothing  for  him  to  do  but  group  hammers 
and  knives  and  chisels,  and  try  to  be  content 
with  seeing  the  parade  go  by. 

Would  Beatrice  forget  to  signal  him,  he 
159 


i6o  BOYHOOD  STORIES 

wondered,  with  an  anxious  glance  toward 
the  window.  Surely  not,  for  she  had  prom- 
ised to  sing  as  soon  as  she  saw  the  outriders. 
And  just  then  a  clear,  sweet  voice  rose  in  a 
Florentine  greeting  song.  Yes,  it  was  com- 
ing now,  the  great  cavalcade  of  which  people 
had  talked  for  many  days,  and  he  turned 
from  the  bench  and  hurried  out  into  the 
loggia. 

Leaning  far  out  over  the  railing,  he  saw 
her  standing  under  the  pomegranates. 

"Are  they  coming.  Bice?"  he  asked,  as  her 
merry  eyes  turned  toward  him. 

"Si,  si,  Andrea  mio"  she  called  back  in 
her  musical  Tuscan.  "Yonder  is  the  ad- 
vance-guard, and  just  behind  are  the  gleam- 
ing Medici  banners.  That  means  the  ducal 
carriage  will  soon  be  here.  Ah,  it  is  splen- 
did, splendid !" 

And  she  whirled  in  a  dancing  step  and 
broke  into  song  again. 

Andrea  ran  down  the  stairway,  forgetting 
all  about  his  task  in  the  workshop.  Yes, 
there  it  came,  a  gorgeous  procession,  across 
the  Arno  by  the  Ponte  Vecchio  and  along 
the  Via  Guicciardini,  horsemen  and  footmen 


THE  BORDER  WONDERFUL     i6i 

in  fine  array,  bearing  Florence's  duke  to 
Florence's  great  cathedral.  His  birthday  it 
was,  and  the  people  would  celebrate  it  mag- 
nificently, Andrea  knew,  for  his  father,  the 
jolly  tailor,  had  told  him  all  about  it  as 
he  bent  over  his  sewing  the  night  before. 
There  would  be  pomp  at  the  palace  and  mirth 
in  the  streets,  and  he  wished  he  might  roam 
at  will  and  feast  upon  it.  But  suddenly  a 
harsh  voice  struck  his  ear,  for  the  goldsmith 
had  come  into  the  shop  and  found  him  away. 

"Get  to  your  bench,  young  dullard,  and 
quickly  tool"  he  called.  "A  nice  lot  of 
trouble  you  make  for  me  with  your  heedless 
ways,  and  I  've  a  mind  to  send  you  back  to 
your  father." 

And  looking  up  at  the  face  framed  in  the 
window,  the  boy  saw  that  the  eyes  were  as 
angry  as  the  voice. 

He  was  very  much  frightened.  Twice 
that  morning  he  had  been  scolded  for  draw- 
ing pictures  when  he  should  have  been  turn- 
ing the  tool  grinder,  and  he  wondered  what 
dreadful  thing  would  happen  now.  So  he 
hurried  in  through  the  loggia  to  his  bench; 
but  his  lip  quivered  as  Beatrice  went  on  with 


i62  BOYHOOD  STORIES 

the  crowd,  and  he  thought  how  hard  it  would 
be  to  stay  in  the  workshop  when  all  the  mirth 
and  life  of  Florence  was  pulsing  in  the 
streets,  and  tears  came  so  thick  and  fast  that 
he  could  hardly  tell  one  tool  from  another. 
Then  the  master  went  out,  and  Leonardo,  the 
journeyman,  returned  from  an  errand.  He 
was  older  than  Andrea,  but  they  were  very 
good  friends,  and  the  doleful  face  brightened 
as  he  came  near. 

"What's  the  matter?"  he  asked,  at  the 
sight  of  the  misty  eyes.  "Would  n't  he  let 
you  see  the  procession?" 

The  lad  shook  his  head. 

"No;  he  says  I  am  here  to  work." 

"Too  bad,  too  bad,"  the  older  boy  mur- 
mured. "But  there  will  be  other  festivals, 
and  he  is  n't  often  cross  like  this.  He  's 
worried  now  because  he  can't  get  a  design 
for  the  border  on  the  cardinal's  bowl,  for, 
unless  it  is  finished  this  week  there  will  be  no 
more  work  from  this  great  man.  So  it  is 
not  strange  that  he  's  out  of  sorts." 

Andrea  had  no  idea  what  a  design  was, 
and  was  too  unhappy  to  care.  His  mind 
was  on  the  merriment,  and  nothing  seemed 


THE  BORDER  WONDERFUL     163. 

half  as  bad  as  having  to  miss  it.  But  he  had 
to  work.  So  he  tried  to  make  the  best  of  it, 
and  his  hands  moved  so  rapidly  about  the 
bench  that  soon  his  task  was  finished,  and  he 
had  nothing  to  do  until  the  master  came  in 
and  assigned  him  to  another.  Leonardo, 
polishing  a  plate  at  his  own  place,  was  too 
busy  to  talk.  So  he  took  a  piece  of  parch- 
ment and  a  bit  of  charcoal  from  the  table  and 
began  to  draw. 

That  made  him  forget  his  disappointment. 
He  scratched  and  scratched  on  the  smooth 
white  surface,  and  by  the  time  the  journey- 
man had  finished  his  polishing,  the  sheet  was 
almost  covered,  and  he  held  it  up  for  him  to 
see. 

Leonardo  looked,  then  gave  an  exclama- 
tion. 

"Oh,  oh!  It  is  a  pretty  thing  you  have 
made,  but  you  've  used  some  of  the  master's 
parchment,  and  he  will  be  angry  indeed." 

For  parchment  was  costly  in  those  far-off 
days,  and  men  were  very  careful  of  it. 

Andrea  was  terrified,  and,  at  the  sight  of 
Josefo  coming  in  at  the  door,  he  began  to 
cry. 


i64  BOYHOOD  STORIES 

''What  have  you  been  doing  now?"  the 
man  asked  angrily. 

"This,"  he  sobbed,  laying  his  hand  on  the 
parchment. 

Leonardo  held  his  breath,  for  he  was  sure 
that  Andrea,  who  so  often  irritated  the  mas- 
ter by  his  thoughtless  ways,  would  fare  badly 
at  his  hands.  But  as  the  goldsmith  looked  at 
the  drawing  the  sternness  left  his  face,  and 
a  sort  of  wonder  came  into  it. 

"You  don't  mean  you  did  this?"  he  said. 

"Yes,"  Andrea  faltered,  "but  I  'm  sorry  I 
spoiled  the  parchment." 

Then,  as  Josefo  laid  his  big  hand  on  the 
dark  head,  Leonardo  wondered  why  he  had 
ever  thought  him  stern. 

"Never  fear  about  that,"  he  replied,  in  a 
voice  they  seldom  heard  in  the  workshop. 
"You  have  done  a  wonderful  thing,  and  it 
means  much  to  me.  I  shall  use  this  border 
for  the  cardinal's  bowl,  and  to-morrow,  when 
Gian  Barile  comes,  I  '11  show  it  to  him.  This 
afternoon  you  may  have  a  holiday,  for  you 
deserve  to  see  the  fun  for  helping  me  out  of 
my  trouble." 

And  Andrea  wondered  how  it  happened 


THE  BORDER  WONDERFUL     165 

that  the  very  thing  that  had  brought  him 
scoldings  twice  that  morning  should  give  him 
a  merry  time  a  few  hours  later.  But  he  was 
only  seven  years  old,  and  too  young  to  real- 
ize what  a  wonderful  thing  he  had  done. 
But  this  he  did  know :  he  was  going  to  have  a 
great  deal  of  pleasure.  And  beside  the  car- 
nival fun  there  w^as  the  joy  of  looking  for- 
ward to  the  morrow,  when  Gian  Barile 
would  see  his  drawing,  for  he  was  said  by 
Florentines  to  be  a  most  excellent  painter. 

Morning  in  the  botfega  of  the  goldsmith 
was  a  very  busy  time.  Tools  must  be 
ground,  and  knives  sharpened,  and  metal 
prepared  for  the  melting-pot.  Then,  too, 
chiseling  and  shaping  and  carving  began  on 
new  articles,  and  there  was  always  finishing 
on  those  left  over  from  the  day  before.  So 
Andrea  and  Leonardo  worked  busily,  while 
the  master  carved  away  at  the  bowl.  They 
talked  and  laughed  as  they  bent  to  their 
tasks,  for  now  that  he  had  a  design  that 
suited  him,  Josefo  was  in  a  jolly  mood,  and 
when  Beatrice,  the  gay  street-singer,  put  her 
head  in  at  the  window,  he  did  not  scold,  but 
called  to  her  in  a  merry  jest.     Together  they 


1 66  BOYHOOD  STORIES 

chatted  about  yesterday's  carnival,  and  after 
a  while  came  Gian  Barile,  to  lounge  and  gos- 
sip for  an  hour. 

Andrea  saw  him  saunter  up  the  via,  and 
as  he  came  in  through  the  loggia  whispered 
to  Leonardo,  ''Do  you  think  he  will  really 
show  him  my  drawing?" 

And  even  as  they  held  their  heads  to- 
gether, Josefo  unrolled  the  parchment. 

"What  think  you  of  this  for  the  work  of 
a  lad?"  he  asked,  as  Barile  appeared  at  the 
door. 

The  painter  shook  his  head. 

*'No  lad  did  that.  Or,  if  it  be  really  true, 
let  me  see  him,  and  I  will  show  you  another 
Giotto  or  Tiziano  or  perhaps  a  Leonardo." 

And  Leonardo  the  journeyman  jumped  so 
that  he  dropped  one  of  the  costliest  tools, 
which  would  have  brought  a  stern  rebuke 
at  any  other  time.  But  the  master  did  not 
notice  it.     His  mind  was  upon  other  things. 

"Aye,  aye,"  he  insisted,  "upon  the  word  of 
an  honest  Florentine  it  is  the  work  of  a  lad, 
and  he  but  a  seven-year-old ;  young  Andrea, 
the  tailor's  son." 


"Upon  the  word  of  an  honest  Florentine  it  rs  the  work  of  a  lad" 


THE  BORDER  WONDERFUL     169 

For  a  minute  Barile  did  not  speak.  Per- 
haps he  was  silent  over  the  marvel  of  what 
the  boy  had  done.  Perhaps  he  thought  of 
how  he  might  aid  him.  He  just  stood  and 
looked  into  the  dark  eyes,  then  said  slowly, 
"If  you  will  study  faithfully,  there  will  come 
a  day  when  you  will  paint  more  gloriously 
than  I  can  ever  hope  to." 

And  Andrea  believed  he  must  have  heard 
wrong,  for  Barile  was  one  of  the  celebrated 
artists  of  his  time. 

Then  a  thought  troubled  him. 

Perhaps  his  father  would  not  let  him  do  it. 
He  had  been  eager  to  have  him  become  a 
goldsmith,  and  might  think  he  could  not  be 
an  artist.  So  Barile  went  home  with  him 
that  night,  and  as  they  talked  it  over,  the 
tailor  said  his  advice  seemed  good,  and  he 
would  let  his  boy  follow  it. 

Which  delighted  Andrea  so  much  that  he 
ran  as  fast  as  he  could  to  the  pomegranate- 
shaded  house  where  Beatrice  lived,  to  tell 
her  he  was  going  to  be  a  painter. 

"That  will  be  splendid !"  she  cried,  as  she 
clapped  her  sun-browned  hands;  "and  when 


170  BOYHOOD  STORIES 

you  are  great,  I  will  come  and  sing  for  you." 
And  they  laughed  together,  thinking  how 
fine  it  would  be. 

So,  soon  after  he  began  his  apprenticeship 
to  the  goldsmith,  Andrea  left  it  to  work  with 
brushes  and  pigments.  He  was  a  studious 
and  faithful  pupil,  and  progressed  so  rapidly 
that  Barile  soon  realized  he  needed  a  better 
master,  and  spoke  concerning  him  to  Piero 
di  Cosimo,  the  most  renowned  teacher  of 
Florence,  who  agreed  to  take  him  under  his 
care.  Then  came  years  of  work,  hard,  un- 
ceasing, but  happy  work,  for  Andrea  loved 
his  brushes  and  canvases,  and  Cosimo  loved 
his  pupil,  until  he  became  so  skilful  with  pig- 
ments that  people  said  it  seemed  as  if  he  had 
used  them  for  half  a  century.  Nothing  de- 
lighted him  as  much  as  to  blend  his  precious 
colors,  and,  while  other  lads  loitered  in  the 
streets  or  roamed  along  the  Arno,  he  painted 
in  the  shop  of  Cosimo,  improving  hour  by 
hour  and  day  by  day,  until  all  of  Barile's 
prophecies  concerning  him  were  fulfilled,  and 
Florence  gloried  in  the  thought  of  having 
produced  another  immortal. 

So  it  was  n't  bad,  after  all,  that  he  had  to 


THE  BORDER  WONDERFUL    171 

stay  in  the  workshop  that  carnival  morn,  for, 
although  it  seemed  a  hardship  then,  it 
brought  him  to  the  notice  of  Gian  Barile,  and 
the  world  came  to  have  one  more  master 
painter.  Almost  four  centuries  have  gone 
since  he  lived  and  worked,  but  artists  still 
marvel  at  the  beauty  of  his  pictures,  and 
strive,  but  always  unsuccessfully,  to  copy 
their  exquisite  design  and  hue.  Beatrice, 
singing  away  the  hours  under  the  pomegran- 
ates or  along  the  sun-kissed  vias,  thought 
him  a  foolish  boy  for  working  so  hard,  for 
she  could  not  understand  that  it  was  a  divine 
thing  that  kept  him  at  his  pigments  and 
would  make  him  live  forever. 

And  what  became  of  the  border  he  drew 
on  parchment  in  the  old  bottegaf  Na 
one  knows.  Perhaps  Josefo  treasured  it 
throughout  his  lifetime.  Perhaps  he  sold  it 
or  gave  it  away.  But  that  cannot  be  proven, 
because  nothing  is  known  of  Josefo.  His 
very  name  would  have  been  forgotten  long 
ago,  had  it  not  happened  that  once,  for  a  very 
short  time,  he  had  an  apprentice  boy  who 
gave  him  a  deal  of  trouble  drawing  pictures 
when  he  should  have  been  assorting  tools. 


172  BOYHOOD  STORIES 

But  what  then  seemed  wasted  hours  have 
proven  to  be  hours  well  spent,  for  the  lad 
grew  to  be  an  honor  to  his  city  and  a  glory 
to  his  land.  And  to  this  day,  because  he  was 
the  child  of  a  maker  of  garments,  he,  like 
Tintoretto,  the  Venetian  dyer's  son,  is  still 
designated  by  his  father's  craft,  and  is 
known  to  the  world  as  Andrea  del  Sarto. 


THE  WONDER-CHILD  OF 
WARSAW 


X 

THE  WONDER-CHILD  OF  WARSAW 

THEY  said  he  was  nine  years  old,  but 
he  was  so  Httle  and  deUcate  looking 
that  he  seemed  not  a  day  over  seven;  and 
when  the  great  Niemcewicz,  a  famous  Polish 
writer,  saw  him  standing  in  the  doorway, 
watching  the  snow  float  down  like  fairy  rose 
leaves,  he  was  sure  he  had  made  a  mistake 
and  looked  again  at  the  address  on  the  paper. 
But  there  it  was,  plain  as  ever  an  address  was 
written;  and  since  this  was  the  street  and 
number,  of  course  this  must  be  the  boy.  Yet 
how  could  it  be— the  sensitive-faced,  fragile 
child,  with  his  shock  of  curly  hair  and  wide 
dark  eyes  that  gleamed  like  living  jewels — 
how  could  he  be  the  lad  of  whom  such  won- 
derful tales  were  told  in  Warsaw? 

And  for  a  minute  he  just  stood  and  won- 
dered. And  while  he  wondered,  Frederic 
wondered  too,  but  about  something  very  dif- 

175 


176  BOYHOOD  STORIES 

ferent  from  what  was  in  the  mind  of  the 
poet.  Who  was  this  velvet-coated  stranger 
who  rode  in  a  carriage  with  a  coat  of  arms 
and  wore  a  crimson-plumed  bonnet  fine 
enough  for  a  king  ?  Great  folk  did  not  often 
come  to  his  home,  and  something  very  impor- 
tant must  have  brought  this  man  there. 

Then  a  fear  went  through  his  mind. 
Could  it  be  the  prefect  of  police  come  to  ar- 
rest him?  And  he  wished  he  had  not  run 
away  that  morning  to  watch  the  skaters  on 
the  ice-bound  Vistula. 

The  man  had  stepped  out  of  the  carriage 
and  was  coming  up  the  steps  now,  looking 
straight  at  Frederic  with  his  dark,  piercing 
eyes.  Yes,  surely  it  must  be  the  police  offi- 
cial, and  the  boy  wanted  to  run  away  and 
hide.  But  before  he  had  a  chance  even  to 
turn,  the  stranger  called  to  him. 

"Are  you  Frederic  Chopin?"  he  asked. 

And  Frederic  was  so  badly  frightened  he 
could  hardly  answer. 

"Yes ;  but  please,  please  don't  take  me  this 
time !"  he  begged,  as  his  eyes  filled  with  tears, 
"ril  never  run  away  again." 

At  his  words  and  actions  the  man  looked 


WONDER-CHILD  OF  WARSAW     177 

much  surprised,  and  spoke  as  if  to  explain 
something: 

"Why,  I  did  n't—" 

But  before  he  had  time  to  finish  the  sen- 
tence Madame  Chopin  opened  the  door. 
Seeing  her  Httle  lad  in  tears,  she  did  not 
know  what  it  meant. 

But  Niemcewicz  told  her  what  Frederic 
had  said.  Then  she  knew  all  about  it — knew 
how  badly  frightened  he  was  at  the  thought 
of  going  to  prison,  and  she  laid  her  hand  lov- 
ingly on  his  dark  curls. 

Niemcewicz  stood  looking  at  her  gentle 
eyes — they  were  dark,  and  big  and  brilliant 
like  Frederic's — and  he  thought  what  a  fair 
woman  she  was. 

*Toor  little  Frederic !"  she  said  in  a  voice 
that  was  like  low  music.  **He  ran  away  this 
morning  to  watch  the  skaters  on  the  river, 
which  is  a  very  dangerous  pastime  for  little 
boys,  because  horses  might  tread  them  under- 
foot or  the  city  streets  swallow  them  up  and 
lose  them;  and  his  father  declared  that  if  it 
ever  happened  again  he  would  surely  put  it 
into  the  hands  of  the  police.  But  I  think  it 
never  will." 


178  BOYHOOD  STORIES 

And  Frederic's  big  eyes  looked  bigger  and 
darker  than  ever. 

"No,  it  never  will/'  he  promised;  *'so 
please  let  me  go  this  time.  I  did  n't  mean  to 
be  bad,  truly  I  did  n't.  I  could  n't  help  go- 
ing, because  I  knew  they  would  sing  as  they 
skated,  and  I  love  to  hear  their  songs." 

And  Madame  Chopin  nodded  her  head,  be- 
cause she  knew  it  was  true.  Niemcewicz 
nodded  too,  for  he,  like  all  Warsaw,  had 
heard  that  Frederic  loved  music  as  butterflies 
love  sunshine,  and  his  voice  was  almost  as 
gentle  as  the  mother's  when  he  spoke. 

''Don't  be  afraid,"  he  comforted.  ''1 
did  n't  come  to  take  you  to  prison,  because  I 
am  not  the  prefect  of  police.  And  even  if  I 
were,  I  know  you  '11  never  run  away  again. 
But  I  did  come  to  see  just  you,  Master 
Frederic  Chopin." 

Which  caused  Madame  Chopin  to  wonder 
a  very  great  deal.  But  she  was  a  gently  born 
woman,  and  her  courtesy  was  greater  than 
her  curiosity.  So  she  invited  him  to  come 
inside  and  led  the  way  to  the  living-room, 
where  the  boy's  sisters,  Emily  and  Louisa 


WONDER-CHILD  OF  WARSAW     179 

and  Justinia,  were  bending  over  their  em- 
broidery. 

It  was  a  small  room  and  plainly  furnished, 
not  at  all  like  the  ones  to  which  the  poet  was 
accustomed;  but  brightness  and  cheer  were 
there,  and  he  knew  it  was  not  just  an  abiding 
place  but  a  home.  The  cat  nodded  beside 
the  piano-stool  that  was  Frederic's  wonted 
place,  and  over  the  instrument  hung  a  fine 
old  painting,  brought  by  Nicholas  Chopin 
from  France  when  he  came  to  Warsaw  some 
fifteen  years  before.  For  he  was  a  son  of 
the  Southland,  of  the  sweet,  green  country 
of  Lorraine,  who  had  married  a  Polish 
woman.  So  in  Frederic's  veins  were 
mingled  the  warm,  red  blood  of  the  Latin  and 
the  warm,  red  blood  of  the  Slav,  both  of 
whom  see  visions  and  dream  dreams. 

The  fire  on  the  open  hearth  sent  long 
bright  tongues  up  toward  the  chimney,  and 
as  they  walked  near  it,  Niemcewicz  spoke 
some  words  to  Madame  Chopin  that  the  chil- 
dren did  not  understand.  But  certainly  they 
were  pleasant  words ;  for  when  they  were  fin- 
ished, the  mother  threw  her  arms  about  the 


i8o  BOYHOOD  STORIES 

boy  and  exclaimed,  "Frederic,  this  is  Pan 
[Mr.]  Niemcewicz,  come  to  ask  you  to  play 
at  a  concert." 

And  he  was  as  much  surprised  as  he  had 
been  frightened  a  few  moments  before.  No 
prison  cell  for  him,  but  a  lovely  invitation ! 

''Yes,"  the  man  spoke ;  ''and  if  you  do,  you 
will  be  helping  the  poor  of  Warsaw,  because 
all  the  ticket  money  is  to  be  given  to  them." 

And  the  big  dark  eyes  brightened  as  he 
said :  "Oh,  I  should  like  that !  Please  let  me 
do  it,  Mother.     Please!" 

And  the  smile  on  Madame  Chopin's  face 
said,  as  plainly  as  words  could  say,  "Yes." 

So  it  was  decided,  and  a  little  later  the  poet 
Niemcewicz  went  out  of  the  house  and  drove 
away  through  the  whirling  snow,  leaving  be- 
hind him  Emily  and  Louisa  and  Justinia 
much  excited.  It  would  be  very  splendid  to 
have  their  brother  play  before  the  great  of 
Warsaw,  and  they  wanted  to  go  out  and 
spread  the  news  throughout  the  neighbor- 
hood. 

But  Frederic  was  n't  excited  at  all.  Of 
course  it  was  delightful  to  think  of  helping 
the  poor,  but  he  had  played  before  people  so 


WONDER-CHILD  OF  WARSAW     i8i 

often  that  it  seemed  just  a  usual  event.  And 
not  until  the  next  day,  when  his  father 
brought  home  a  new  suit  for  him  to  wear,  did 
it  seem  like  a  great  occasion.  But  at  sight  of 
the  velvet  coat  and  broad  white  collar  with 
its  frill  of  lace  he  wanted  the  concert  to  begin 
immediately  so  he  could  wear  them,  and 
thought  Pan  Niemcewicz  must  be  a  sort  of 
fairy  godfather,  for,  if  he  had  n't  come  to  ask 
him  to  play,  the  splendid  clothes  would  not 
have  been  bought.  It  was  still  fifteen  days 
until  the  appointed  night,  and  it  seemed  as  if 
they  would  never  pass.  He  began  to  think 
that  men  who  say  February  is  the  shortest 
month  in  the  year  are  mistaken,  and  that 
surely  it  is  the  longest,  for  although  the  day 
would  wane  and  the  night  would  come,  there 
w^as  always  another  day  and  then  another 
night,  and  still  no  concert  time.  But  at  last 
the  much  desired  occasion  came,  and  arrayed 
in  his  velvet  suit  with  its  splendid  collar  he 
walked  across  the  stage  of  the  concert-hall, 
as  proud  as  a  young  prince. 

The  great  lords  and  ladies  in  the  audience 
looked  surprised.  He  was  small  for  his  age, 
and  so  slender  and  delicate  that  he  looked 


i82  BOYHOOD  STORIES 

younger  than  he  was,  and  one  powerful  noble 
said  in  a  loud  whisper,  "Why  does  Niemce- 
wicz  bring  us  to  hear  a  baby  when  he  might 
have  had  a  man  who  could  play  well  ?" 

And  he  expected  to  be  very  much  annoyed. 

Little  Frederic  sat  down  and  began  to  play, 
first  somewhat  hesitatingly,  for  the  piano 
was  not  the  accustomed  one  of  his  home,  and 
the  action  was  a  trifle  strange.  But  in  a  mo- 
ment the  keys  and  his  fingers  seemed  to  un- 
derstand each  other,  and  he  played  as  never  a 
child  of  Warsaw  had  played  before.  The 
lords  and  ladies  in  the  audience  sat  very 
straight  and  very  still,  and,  when  he  finished, 
applauded  with  hand  and  voice.  Even  the 
Grand  Duke  Constantine,  who  seldom  gave 
praise  to  any  one,  called  "Bravo!  bravo!" 
while  the  noble  who  had  blamed  Niemcewicz 
for  bringing  the  boy  there,  sought  the  poet's 
side  and  exclaimed,  "Surely  he  is  Poland's 
wonder-child,  even  as  little  Mozart  was  Aus- 
tria's!    Have  him  come  out  again!" 

So  the  child  played  again  to  the  silently 
listening  throng,  after  which  the  applause 
thundered  once  more  and  some  of  the  ladies 
had  tears  in  their  eyes. 


WONDER-CHILD  OF  WARSAW     183 

And  what  thought  little  Frederic  ?  Oh,  he 
was  very  much  pleased.  He  was  too  young 
to  understand  how  marvelous  was  the  music 
that  he  had  made,  and  thought  they  ap- 
plauded because  they  liked  his  clothes.  So  a 
little  later,  when  he  went  home  and  his 
mother  asked  him  which  number  the  people 
liked  best,  he  said,  "Oh,  Mama,  everybody 
was  looking  at  my  collar." 

But  he  was  much  mistaken,  for  most  of 
them  had  n't  noticed  his  collar.  They  saw 
only  a  wonder-child  with  a  mop  of  curly  hair 
and  eyes  like  living  jewels. 

A  year  passed,  and  many  times  since  that 
concert  had  carriages  of  noblemen  come  to 
the  humble  Chopin  house.  The  high-born 
folk  of  Warsaw  petted  the  little  musician  and 
made  his  life  very  bright,  and  he  had  so  many 
invitations  that  his  mother  said  he  no  longer 
belonged  to  her,  but  to  all  of  Poland ;  which 
was  true,  for  a  genius  belongs  not  only  to 
his  family,  but  to  his  country  and  the  world. 
His  father  was  only  a  teacher  and  not  rich, 
but  very  often  the  boy  went  as  a  guest  to 
some  splendid  castle  of  his  land,  where  he 
lived  the  life  of  a  young  noble,  and  Polish 


i84  BOYHOOD  STORIES 

nobles  of  those  days  lived  luxuriously  in- 
deed. They  loved  his  sunny  youth  and  joy- 
ous ways ;  loved  the  melody  he  drew  from  the 
piano ;  and  always,  when  they  heard  him,  said 
that  some  day  he  would  bring  honor  to  his 
name  and  glory  to  Poland. 

Then  something  happened  that  brought 
him  both  joy  and  sorrow. 

It  was  January,  and  Catalani,  a  great 
Italian  singer,  with  a  voice  of  gold  and  a  face 
of  ivory  and  rose,  came  into  snow-wrapped 
Warsaw.  Great  was  the  excitement  there, 
for  Poland  was  a  music-loving  land,  and  she 
was  the  empress  of  song  of  her  day.  Up 
from  Italy  she  came  to  sing  the  melodies 
of  the  South  in  the  frozen  North;  and  people 
talked  of  it  in  the  streets  and  at  the  public 
meeting-places. 

"We  will  fill  the  concert-hall,"  said  one, 
"and  prove  to  her  that  we  Poles  love  the 
best." 

"Yes,"  his  neighbor  answered,  "and  we 
will  take  our  children  to  hear  her  too,  so  that 
long  after  childhood  is  past  they  will  remem- 
ber Catalini,  the  great  singer." 


WONDER-CHILD  OF  WARSAW     185 

One  of  the  first  to  hear  the  news  was 
Nicholas  Chopin. 

*'It  is  rare  good  fortune  for  us  of  War- 
saw," he  announced  as  they  sat  at  supper 
that  night.  "She  will  give  four  concerts 
here  in  the  town  hall." 

At  the  words  Frederic  gave  a  shout. 

"Catalani  to  sing!"  he  exclaimed.  "Oh, 
Father,  I  want  to  hear  her !" 

And  the  big  man  nodded  in  reply. 

'That  you  shall,  my  Frederic,  because  I 
know  it  will  make  you  very  happy." 

And  Frederic's  heart  beat  faster  at  the 
thought  that  he  was  to  hear  the  greatest 
singer  of  her  time,  and  one  of  the  greatest 
of  all  time.  Nothing  so  wonderful  had  hap- 
pened in  his  short  life,  not  even  when  he 
played  at  the  charity  concert  and  wore  his 
velvet  suit  and  lace-trimmed  collar.  And  as 
he  sat  beside  his  mother,  among  the  great 
lords  and  ladies  assembled  in  the  music-hall 
on  the  eventful  night,  he  scarcely  breathed, 
for  Catalani  was  singing,  and  all  the  jewels, 
all  the  flowers,  and  all  the  gorgeous  colors 
ever  dreamed  of  seemed  mingled  in  her  tones, 


i86  BOYHOOD  STORIES 

and,  as  they  floated  out,  wonderful  pictures 
passed  before  his  eyes.  Sometimes  it  seemed 
as  if  a  thousand  streams  purled  over  a  rain- 
bow meadow,  sometimes  as  if  elves  and 
sprites  were  floating  through  the  air.  He 
shut  his  eyes,  but  still  he  saw  the  pictures, 
which  seemed  very  strange.  For  he  did  not 
know  that  the  rainbow  colors  were  not  in  the 
concert-hall,  but  in  his  own  soul,  and  were 
painted  there  by  the  music  because  he  was  a 
wonder-child. 

Thrice  after  that  night  he  heard  Catalani 
sing,  and  every  time  he  dreamed  dreams  and 
went  off  into  that  realm  whose  gates  open 
only  to  those  who  have  rainbows  in  their 
souls.  Then,  like  the  most  beautiful  dream 
of  all,  she  asked  him  to  play  for  her.  Niem- 
cewicz  the  poet  brought  the  news,  and  al- 
though he  seemed  a  sort  of  fairy  godfather 
who  could  make  anything  come  to  pass, 
Frederic  could  hardly  believe  it  was  true. 
For  how  could  the  golden-voiced  singer  know 
of  a  lad  like  him?  But  she  did  know,  be- 
cause the  Grand  Duke  Constantine  and  other 
great  folk  of  Warsaw  had  told  her  all  about 
him,  and  she  wanted  to  hear  the  music  of  the 


WONDER-CHILD  OF  WARSAW     187 

boy  who  was  called  a  wonder-child.  So  he 
was  dressed  in  his  best,  just  as  he  was  dressed 
the  night  of  the  charity  concert,  and  drove 
away  to  the  castle  in  whose  music-room  he 
was  to  play. 

A  throng  of  noble  folk  welcomed  him,  and 
the  great  piano  there  responded  like  a  living 
thing  to  the  magic  of  his  fingers.  Catalani 
heard,  and,  hearing,  thought  with  the  others 
that  he  was,  indeed,  a  wonder-child;  and 
when  he  finished,  she  applauded  and  said  as 
lovely  things  as  song-loving  Warsaw  said 
about  her  singing,  which  made  him  very 
happy.  Then  regal  Princess  Lowica,  the 
Grand  Duke  Constantine,  Count  and  Coun- 
tess  Skarbeck,  and  golden-haired  Countess 
Potocka  came  close  to  the  piano,  saying 
gracious  things  and  petting  him  so  that  he 
seemed  like  a  little  king  receiving  homage, 
and  all  in  all  it  was  the  most  splendid  holiday 
he  had  ever  known. 

But  suddenly  the  blue  went  out  of  his  skies 
and  the  music  out  of  his  world,  for  Catalani 
asked  him  to  tell  her  his  birthday.  That 
seemed  a  terrible  thing,  for  although  he 
could  do  wonders  at  the  piano,  he  couldn't 


i88  BOYHOOD  STORIES 

remember  his  birthday,  no  matter  how  hard 
he  tried.  His  mother  had  told  him  over  and 
over  again,  but  he  always  got  it  mixed,  and 
did  n't  know  if  it  was  the  twelfth  of  February 
or  the  twenty-second,  or  the  twenty-second 
of  March. 

So  he  hung  his  head  and  said,  ''I  don't 
know,  but  one  is  coming  soon." 

At  which  all  the  lords  and  ladies  laughed, 
and  the  singer  remarked,  *'I  must  surely  find 
out  when  it  is !" 

He  was  so  full  of  shame  about  it  that  he 
had  to  bite  his  lips  to  keep  back  the  tears, 
and,  as  he  drove  home  with  Niemcewicz, 
though  the  sun  was  shining  and  the  skies 
clear,  everything  looked  black  and  cloudy 
to  him.  Catalani,  golden-voiced  Catalani, 
would  think  him  a  stupid,  and  he  had  been  so 
eager  to  have  her  like  him.  But  there  were 
some  things  little  Frederic  did  n't  know. 

Madame  Catalani  had  said  she  would  find 
out  when  his  birthday  came,  and  find  out  she 
did,  for  early  in  the  morning  of  that  day  a 
messenger  came  to  the  house  where  more 
than  a  year  before  Niemcewicz  the  poet  had 


WONDER-CHILD  OF  WARSAW     191 

come  to  ask  a  big-eyed  boy  to  play  at  a  char- 
ity concert.  He  struck  the  iron  knocker  on 
the  door,  spoke  a  few  words  to  Emily,  and 
went  away ;  and  a  minute  later  Madame  Cho- 
pin called,  "A  package  for  you,  Frederic." 

Frederic  came  on  the  run,  as  any  boy 
would  do  when  it  is  his  birthday  and  pack- 
ages come.  Then  he  pulled  off  the  wrapper 
and  saw  something  that  made  his  eyes  dance. 

"A  watch,  Mother,  a  watch !"  he  shouted. 

And  upon  the  shining  gold  case  was  en- 
graved the  date  and  the  words,  ''Given  by 
Madame  Catalani  to  Frederic  Chopin,  aged 
ten  years." 

Which  made  him  so  glad  that  he  broke 
into  a  dance  that  his  sister  Louisa  said 
was  neither  polonaise  nor  mazurka,  but  the 
mother  knew  it  was  a  dance  of  joy.  "Oh !" 
he  exclaimed,  "oh,  oh,  oh!  She  likes  me 
even  if  I  did  n't  know." 

And  he  stood  by  the  window  looking  out 
across  the  snow,  seeing  in  memory  the  singer 
of  the  Southland  with  her  face  of  ivory  and 
rose. 

Well,  from  that  day  forth  Frederic  re- 
membered   his    birthday.     Who    wouldn't 


192  BOYHOOD  STORIES 

with  a  watch  Hke  that?  For  whenever  he 
forgot,  one  look  set  him  right,  and  he  went 
on  thinking  Catalani  was  one  of  the  sweetest 
women  in  the  world  as  well  as  the  most  glori- 
ous singer.  And  he  worked  at  his  music, 
too,  playing  more  wonderfully  than  any  child 
had  played  since  the  boy  Mozart,  until,  when 
he  grew  older  and  went  to  seek  his  fortune 
in  Paris,  the  great  of  the  French  capital 
honored  the  man  as  the  great  of  Warsaw 
had  honored  the  boy ;  and  there  was  no  home 
so  splendid  or  so  exclusive  that  it  shut  its 
doors  to  him. 

But  he  was  always  the  slender,  delicate 
man,  just  as  he  was  the  slender,  delicate  child 
whose  frail  appearance  almost  made  the  poet 
Niemcewiez  think  he  was  not  the  lad  he 
sought ;  and  he  died  at  the  early  age  of  forty. 
But  sometimes,  when  the  heart  is  great  and 
full,  short  lives  are  as  rich  in  achievement  as 
those  that  stretch  out  to  four  score  years  and 
ten.  And  so  it  was  with  Chopin.  He  gave 
more  to  the  world  than  many  have  given  who 
have  lived  to  be  twice  his  age,  because  noth- 
ing but  his  best  seemed  fine  enough  to  give, 
and  of  that  he  wanted  to  give  abundantly. 


WONDER-CHILD  OF  WARSAW     193 

So  with  infinite  care  and  patience  he  labored 
to  make  each  composition  nobler  and  more 
beautiful  than  the  preceding  one,  more 
nearly  what  seemed  to  be  the  perfect  fruit  of 
his  soul  and  brain. 

And  he  never  ceased  to  love  his  Slavic 
land.  Memories  of  his  childhood  home  in 
Warsaw,  of  the  quaint  old  houses  and  wind- 
ing streets,  of  the  nobles  in  Vv^hose  castles  he 
had  spent  so  many  golden  hours,  of  the  shim- 
mering, restless  Vistula,  where  peasants 
sang  as  they  rocked  in  their  boats  through 
summer  twilights,  sang  too  as  they  whirled 
on  the  glistening  ice  in  the  long  white  win- 
ters, were  ever  with  the  exile  there  in  Paris, 
and  were  ever  dear — so  dear  that  he  made 
his  best  music  when  his  heart  was  in  Poland. 

More  than  sixty  years  have  passed  since 
his  melody-making  ended  and  he  went  to  his 
rest  beside  Bellini  and  Cherubini  in  quiet 
Pere  Lachaise.  But  his  music  still  lives  on, 
still  is  loved,  is  exquisitely  beautiful.  For 
beauty,  like  truth  and  goodness,  is  immortal ; 
and  as  long  as  the  world  loves  melody,  it 
will  revere  the  name  of  that  wonder-child  of 
Warsaw,  Frederic  Chopin. 


THE  LIGHT  OF  GUIDO'S  LAMP 


XI 

THE  LIGHT  OF  GUIDO'S  LAMP 

THE  street  was  as  silent  as  a  deserted 
place,  for  it  was  midnight,  and  the 
only  human  sound  that  broke  the  velvet  still- 
ness was  the  slow,  measured  tread  of  Cam- 
bisti  the  town  crier,  as  he  tramped  up  and 
down  on  his  beat.  Now  he  cast  eye  along 
the  via  at  the  homes  of  the  populace,  now 
across  toward  the  Gothic  towers  of  the 
Bolognini  Palace,  that  rose  ghostly  gray 
among  the  chestnut  trees,  crying  *'A11  's  well ! 
All 's  well !"  And  all  was  well,  for  the  ducal 
guards  were  alert  in  every  danger  place,  and 
the  people  of  Bologna  slept. 

Suddenly  he  stopped  and  stared  with  won- 
dering eyes.  Out  from  a  window  above  him 
shone  a  streak  of  light,  not  strong  and  bril- 
liant, like  the  gleam  of  the  many  tapers 
Bologna  folk  used  to  brighten  their  festive 

197 


198  BOYHOOD  STORIES 

halls,  but  a  weak,  pale  ray,  as  if  from  a  single 
fat  lamp.  It  came  from  the  home  of  Reni 
the  musician,  and  the  crier  thought  it 
strange,  for  he  knew  Master  Daniele  had 
gone  early  to  his  house  that  evening,  saying 
he  was  tired  and  wanted  to  get  to  rest. 

"Mayhap  some  one  is  ill  and  needs  minis- 
tering unto,"  he  thought.  And  that  he 
might  not  disturb  a  suffering  one,  he  went 
quietly  down  the  street  without  calling  out 
in  his  accustomed  way. 

The  next  morning  he  met  Master  Reni  in 
the  Piazza  del  Nettuno,  and  asked  him  the 
meaning  of  the  lamp  in  the  night.  The  mu- 
sician seemed  much  surprised. 

''What  do  you  mean?"  he  questioned. 
"No  one  was  ill  in  my  house  and  no  lamp 
burned  there." 

But  when  Cambisti  insisted  he  had  seen  a 
gleam  from  the  window,  Daniele  looked 
frightened. 

"Can  it  be  that  thieves  were  in,"  he  ex- 
claimed, and  asked  the  crier  to  go  with  him 
and  find  out. 

But  there  was  no  trace  of  pilfering  in  the 
house.     Nothing  was  missing  nor  had  been 


THE  LIGHT  OF  GUIDO'S  LAMP    199 

disturbed,  and  then  the  musician  laughed 
heartily  at  the  watchman. 

"A  fine  employee  of  the  duke  you  are,"  he 
teased.  "You  sleep  on  your  beat  and  see 
things  in  dreams.  It  must  be  so,  for  now  I 
am  convinced  that  no  light  burned  in  my 
house  last  night." 

Although  Cambist!  did  not  understand  it, 
he  did  not  press  the  subject.  He  had  no  lik- 
ing for  being  the  butt  of  any  man's  jokes,  and 
he  knew  the  ray  from  Master  Reni's  window 
was  no  dream  light.  He  made  up  his  mind 
to  watch  again,  for  the  musician's  conduct 
had  aroused  his  suspicions,  and  he  wondered 
if  his  fear  of  thieves  had  been  feigned.  It 
might  be  that  some  dark  plot  was  being  con- 
cocted there,  for  certain  men  of  the  populace 
had  lately  berated  the  ruling  of  the  Duke  of 
Bologna,  and  although  Master  Daniele  was 
not  suspected  of  being  of  the  number,  he 
would  watch  and  find  out,  as  befitted  a  town 
crier.  So  as  soon  as  darkness  fell,  he  betook 
him  to  the  street  by  the  musician's  house. 

Three  times,  five,  seven,  he  walked  to  the 
spot  and  peered  up  at  the  window  from  which 
the  light  had  shone  the  night  before,  but  not 


200  BOYHOOD  STORIES 

the  faintest  ray  pierced  the  darkness.  He 
decided  that  pilferers  had  gone  there,  and 
finding  nothing  to  their  Hking,  departed  with- 
out leaving  any  trace — or,  as  Master  Reni 
had  said,  maybe  he  had  slept  on  his  beat  and 
dreamed  of  the  light.  And  thus  musing,  he 
started  down  the  street. 

Just  then  the  hour  bell  in  the  castle  tower 
rang,  and  turning  in  the  direction  of  the 
sound  he  happened  to  look  toward  the  Reni 
windows.  His  eyes  opened  wide,  and  he 
stood  and  stared,  for  shining  out,  just  as  it 
had  shone  the  night  before,  was  a  pale,  faint 
light.  "So,"  he  murmured.  "Cambisti  does 
not  dream  on  his  beat,  after  all,  as  Master 
Reni  shall  learn." 

And  hurrying  up  to  the  door,  he  rattled  the 
knocker. 

The  musician  was  sleeping  soundly  when 
the  thumping  on  the  sash  awakened  him,  and 
as  he  detested  being  roused  from  sleep,  he 
went  scowling  and  grumbling  to  the  door. 

*'What  idiot  comes  at  this  hour  to  disturb 
an  honest  man's  rest?"  he  muttered  as  he 
thrust  back  the  bolt. 


THE  LIGHT  OF  GUIDO'S  LAMP    201 

"Master  Daniele,"  Cambisti  said  in  a 
whisper,  "just  step  outside  and  find  out 
whether  I  dream  of  Hghts  or  see  them." 

Reni  was  thoroughly  awake  now,  and  a  Ht- 
tle  alarmed.  Still,  he  half  believed  the  man 
had  turned  demented. 

"It  would  be  small  wonder  if  he  had,"  he 
thought  as  he  followed  him  down  the  steps, 
"with  twenty  years  of  town  crying." 

But  suddenly  that  idea  went  out  of  his 
head.  No,  the  night  watch  was  in  full  pos- 
session of  his  senses.  A  light  shone  from 
the  window  just  as  he  had  said.  Thieves 
must  be  abroad,  and  he  shivered,  for  the  ray 
came  from  his  little  son's  room. 

"And  he  but  a  baby,  too,"  he  thought. 

They  held  a  whispered  consultation  about 
what  to  do,  decided  to  summon  help,  and  go 
to  the  place  where  the  light  burned.  So  Reni 
ran  to  the  house  of  a  neighbor  and  Cambisti 
to  call  some  soldiers  of  the  guard.  It  would 
be  folly  for  an  unarmed  citizen  and  a  town 
crier  who  was  no  longer  young  to  go  into  the 
house  alone,  for  well  they  knew  the  terrible 
nature  of  the  dreaded  Bologna  banditti,  who 


202  BOYHOOD  STORIES 

were  skilled  in  the  use  of  sword  and  halberd 
and  whose  blows  were  swift  and  sure.  Such 
men  did  not  venture  into  possible  danger 
without  being  prepared  for  it,  and  they  who 
surprised  them  in  their  evil  doing  must  be 
strong  and  ready,  for  it  meant  a  battle. 

Five  minutes  later  six  soldiers,  the  night 
watch,  and  the  two  citizens  crept  up  the  nar- 
row stairway  that  led  from  the  street.  They 
were  not  cowards,  these  men  of  Bologna,  yet 
they  trembled  a  bit  at  the  thought  of  the 
possible  fate  that  awaited  them  In  the 
lighted  room.  Cautiously,  silently  moving, 
they  reached  the  door,  and  each  poised  his 
weapon  ready  to  strike  as  Cambist!  thrust  it 
open. 

Then,  what  a  sight  met  their  eyes!  In 
the  middle  of  the  floor,  smiling  as  if  the  joy 
of  the  world  were  in  his  heart,  a  curly-haired 
child  bent  over  a  paper,  drawing  by  the  light 
of  a  fat  lamp.  It  was  Reni's  nine-year-old 
son,  and  he  was  so  absorbed  in  what  he  was 
doing  that  he  did  not  see  the  group  standing 
behind  him,  or  turn  from  his  work  until  his 
father  exclaimed,  "Guido!" 

Then   he  glanced   up,   and   noticing  the 


THE  LIGHT  OF  GUIDO'S  LAMP    203 

armed  men,  looked  in  a  startled  way  from 
one  to  the  other.  But  before  he  could  ask 
what  it  meant,  Daniele  Reni  questioned 
sharply,  "What  are  you  doing  there?" 

A  look  of  terror  flashed  across  his  face, 
for  his  father's  angry  voice  and  the  presence 
of  the  soldiers  were  something  he  could  not 
understand.  He  caught  up  the  paper  over 
which  he  had  been  bending  as  if  it  were  a 
precious  thing,  and  his  lip  quivered  as  he 
answered,  ''Making  pictures." 

Daniele  Reni  was  more  severe  than  ever. 

"Where  did  you  get  that  lamp?"  he  de- 
manded. 

Guido  did  not  drop  his  eyes  as  if  he  felt 
guilty  and  had  something  to  conceal,  but 
looked  steadily  into  his  father's  face,  reply- 
ing, 'T  bought  it  with  my  birthday  money. 
Uncle  Vittorio  told  me  to  spend  it  for  the 
thing  I  liked  best." 

The  musician  walked  close,  looking  sternly 
at  his  son. 

"A  fine  way  for  you  to  make  a  laughing 
stock  of  me !"  he  thundered.  "Now  get  you 
back  to  bed." 

And  blowing  out  the  light,  he  took  the 


204  BOYHOOD  STORIES 

lamp  with  him,  and  he  and  his  companions 
went  down-stairs,  while  the  child  behind  in 
the  dark  wondered  what  it  all  meant. 

As  soon  as  they  were  beyond  Guido's  hear- 
ing Cambisti  and  the  soldiers  laughed  up- 
roarously,  but  Reni  did  not  share  their  mer- 
riment. He  scowled  and  frowned  as  they 
talked,  picturing  to  himself  how  the  towns- 
folk would  jeer  him  when  the  word  was 
noised  abroad. 

*'It's  no  mirthful  thing  to  me!"  he  ex- 
claimed. 'That  lad  cares  for  nothing  but 
drawing.  I  wish  him  to  be  a  musician, 
which  is  the  calling  of  the  men  of  my  house, 
but  he  seems  worthless  and  will  not  stay  at 
the  harpsichord.  Thinking  to  break  him  of 
his  everlasting  picture-making  I  took  paper 
away  from  him,  but  he  marked  on  the  walls 
at  night.  Then  his  mother  hid  the  lamp  and 
made  him  go  to  bed  in  the  dark,  but  he  has 
contrived  to  get  another  and  some  more 
drawing  stufif,  and  what  I  am  to  do  with  him 
baffles  me." 

The  soldiers  nodded  sympathetically,  and 
Cambisti  and  the  neighbor  went  away,  thank- 
ful that  God  had  sent  them  daughters  instead 


THE  LIGHT  OF  GUIDO'S  LAMP    205 

of  boys  who  might  worry  them  as  young 
Guido  worried  Daniele. 

At  that  time  Bologna  was  the  seat  of  one 
of  the  most  elegant  and  cultured  courts  of 
Italy.  Nowhere  were  there  finer  concerts 
than  in  the  great  hall  of  the  Bolognini  Palace, 
nowhere  were  there  nobler  paintings,  more 
exquisite  statues,  or  more  splendid  tapestries 
than  those  possessed  by  the  ducal  family. 
The  lord  of  the  province  was  a  lover  of  art, 
and  creators  in  every  line  were  invited  to 
his  capitol.  Thus  it  happened  that  Daniele 
Reni,  whose  musical  ability  was  recognized 
throughout  Bologna,  was  summoned  to  the 
royal  seat  one  day  to  assist  with  his  bagpipes 
at  a  concert.  It  was  less  than  a  week  after 
they  found  Guido  drawing  in  the  night,  and 
his  wife  suggested  that  he  take  the  lad  with 
him. 

"Perhaps  the  fine  music  he  hears  will  lead 
him  to  care  for  the  harpsichord,"  she  re- 
marked as  she  made  the  proposition. 

Daniele  nodded  agreement,  thinking  it  a 
good  idea,  and  a  few  hours  later  when  he 
went  to  the  royal  residence  young  Guido 
trotted  along  beside  him. 


2o6  BOYHOOD  STORIES 

The  boy  was  very  happy  in  the  thought  of 
going  to  the  palace,  and  his  father  was 
pleased,  for  he  believed  the  idea  of  hearing 
the  splendid  music  delighted  him.  But  al- 
though Master  Reni  was  a  good  piper  he 
was  a  poor  guesser,  and  did  not  know  what 
was  in  his  son's  mind.  If  he  had,  he  would 
have  left  him  at  home. 

To  the  lad  the  trip  meant  a  sight  of  glori- 
ous pictures,  a  glimpse  of  the  works  of  the 
master  painters  of  Italy.  He  knew  the  Duke 
of  Bologna  loved  music,  but  he  knew  he  loved 
color  too,  and  that  was  why  his  eyes  gleamed 
so  pleasurably  as  he  and  his  father  hurried 
along  the  via. 

They  did  not  stop  to  look  at  any  of  the 
sights  along  the  way,  although  it  was  May- 
time  and  the  gardens  were  gay  in  their  blos- 
som dresses.  Rapidly  they  walked  along  the 
broad  Via  Castiglione,  past  the  rich  gateways 
and  imposing  colonnades  of  the  Pepoli  Pal- 
ace, until  the  spacious  piazza  of  Santo  Ste- 
fano  spread  out  before  them.  Beyond, 
majestic  in  its  Gothic  splendor,  was  the 
Bolognini  Palace,  set  in  the  midst  of  a  park 
whose  beauty  was  celebrated  from  the  Alps 


THE  LIGHT  OF  GUIDO'S  LAMP    207 

to  the  Bay  of  Naples.  Daniele  Reni  told  his 
son  he  might  play  under  the  trees  until  a 
page  summoned  him  into  the  concert  hall, 
for  a  rehearsal  was  to  precede  the  perform- 
ance, and  he  wanted  the  boy  to  hear  the 
music  in  its  perfection  rather  than  in  the 
crudity  of  the  making. 

Young  Guido  liked  the  idea  much,  for 
there  was  many  a  fountain  and  grotto  and 
bit  of  copsewood  there  that  he  wanted  to  ex- 
amine. In  his  delight  at  finding  so  many 
interesting  things  he  forgot  that  he  had 
been  told  to  stay  close  to  the  Santo  Stefano 
entrance,  and  began  to  ramble  about  as  if 
he  had  the  entire  day  to  spend  in  the  gar- 
den. Now  it  was  a  sculptured  fountain 
that  claimed  his  attention,  now  a  trellised 
path  along  which  ladies  of  the  castle  went 
on  their  way  to  the  bath,  now  an  aviary 
where  tropical  birds  flashed  their  gorgeous 
plumage,  vying  in  color  and  splendor 
with  the  roses  and  pomegranate  flowers  be- 
yond. 

Now  it  happened  that  the  Lord  of  Bologna 
not  only  patronized  artists  by  inviting  them 
to  give  concerts  at  the  palace  and  embellish- 


2o8  BOYHOOD  STORIES 

ing  his  halls  with  their  work,  but  sometimes 
he  gave  them  apartments  and  board  and  keep, 
that  they  might  be  free  to  create  unworried 
by  the  thought  of  rent  and  food  bills.  Not 
long  before  Dionisio  Calvart,  a  famous 
Flemish  painter,  had  established  a  workshop 
and  school  under  the  protection  of  the 
beauty-loving  noble,  and  young  Guido,  in 
the  course  of  his  ramble,  came  upon  his 
studio. 

The  lad  felt  that  he  had  entered  a  wonder- 
land. His  eyes  flashed  as  he  saw  the  mar- 
vels of  brush  and  color  there,  his  face  bright- 
ened as  if  electrified,  and  one  of  Dionisio's 
pupils,  seeing  the  delight  which  his  every 
look  and  gesture  expressed,  called  the 
teacher. 

Calvart  turned  from  his  canvas  and  looked 
at  the  boy,  who  was  standing  before  a 
madonna,  making  strokes  with  his  hands 
as  if  they  held  an  imaginary  brush,  study- 
ing every  line  and  hue  of  the  pictured 
face. 

''What  are  you  doing?"  the  painter  asked 
kindly,  wondering  at  such  interest  being 
shown  by  one  so  young. 


THE  LIGHT  OF  GUIDO'S  LAMP    209 

Guido  turned  toward  him  with  wonder- 
wide  eyes. 

"Oh,  the  picture !"  he  exclaimed.  "If  only 
I  could  paint  like  that!  If  only  father 
would  let  me  try !" 

Master  Calvart  left  his  work  and  went 
over  to  where  the  lad  stood. 

"Do  you  want  to  be  a  painter?"  he  asked. 

Guido  nodded. 

'Indeed  I  do.  But  father  is  a  musician, 
and  says  I  must  be  one  too.  He  took  my 
things  away  so  I  could  n't  draw  any  pictures 
but  those  I  made  in  the  dust.  Then  Uncle 
Vittorio  gave  me  some  birthday  money,  and 
I  bought  a  lamp  and  paper  and  worked  at 
night.  But  he  took  that,  too,  before  I  had  a 
chance  to  finish  my  drawings." 

And  he  pulled  from  his  blouse  a  roll  of 
papers  and  held  them  up  for  the  artist  to  see. 

Calvart  examined  them  curiously,  and 
asked  how  old  he  was. 

''Nine  last  week,"  Guido  replied.  "My 
birthday  is  just  past." 

Again  the  man  looked  at  the  drawings, 
murmuring,  "Only  nine!  The  wonder  of 
it!" 


210  BOYHOOD  STORIES 

His  approval  was  so  evident  to  the  pupils 
that  they  turned  from  their  work  and  gazed 
from  boy  to  master,  eager  to  know  what  he 
would  say  next. 

There  was  a  sound  of  footsteps  in  the  cor- 
ridor outside,  and  a  moment  later  the  duke 
came  into  the  studio.  All  rose  to  greet 
him,  and  Calvart  put  the  drawings  into  his 
hand. 

"See  what  this  boy  has  done,"  he  said. 
*'He  tells  me  he  is  just  nine." 

Little  Guido  was  much  surprised.  Were 
they  very  good  or  very  bad,  he  won- 
dered, that  the  painter  showed  them  to  the 
duke. 

The  Lord  of  Bologna  understood  art  as 
well  as  he  loved  it.  For  a  moment  he  stud- 
ied the  drawings,  then  spoke  in  a  kindly 
voice. 

"You  did  them  without  help?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  sire,"  Guido  replied. 

Then,  as  other  questions  were  put,  he  told 
the  story  of  his  struggle  to  draw. 

"So  you  are  the  son  of  Daniele  Reni  ?"  the 
noble  remarked.  "Well,  we  will  see  about 
it." 


THE  LIGHT  OF  GUIDO'S  LAMP    211 

Suddenly  Guido  happened  to  remember  he 
was  to  have  waited  in  the  park  near  the 
Santo  Stefano  gate. 

"Oh!"  he  exclaimed  in  dismay.  ''Father 
will  be  angry  with  me.  Maybe  he  has  sent 
for  me  already." 

The  Duke  of  Bologna  laid  his  hand  on  the 
boy's  shoulder. 

"Have  no  fear,"  he  spoke.  "I  '11  take  you 
to  your  father,  and  I  promise  you  he  will  not 
be  angry  with  you." 

So  together  they  went,  and  imagine  the 
surprise  of  Daniele  Reni,  just  as  the  pipers 
were  beginning  the  opening  number,  to  see 
his  boy  Guido  enter  the  music  hall  with  the 
Lord  of  Bologna.  And  both  man  and  child 
smiled  happily,  so  it  could  not  be  that  he  had 
gotten  into  mischief  about  the  castle.  What 
did  it  mean? 

He  did  not  have  to  wonder  long,  for  the 
duke  stopped  the  concert  to  ask  him  a  ques- 
tion. 

"Is  this  your  son,  Reni?"  he  inquired. 

"Yes,"  the  amazed  man  answered. 

The  noble  turned  to  the  boy. 

"Now  tell  him,  and  tell  him  the  truth,"  he 


212  BOYHOOD  STORIES 

said.  ''Do  you  want  to  be  an  artist  or  a 
musician?" 

Young  Guido's  eyes  darkened  with  ear- 
nestness as  he  spoke. 

*'Sire,  I  want  to  be  a  painter,"  came  the 
reply. 

Then,  turning  to  the  father,  the  duke 
asked,  "What  think  you  of  it,  Daniele?" 

The  man  at  the  bagpipe  shook  his  head. 

*Tt  is  my  wish  that  he  be  a  musician  and 
follow  the  calling  of  the  men  of  my  house, 
which  to  my  notion  is  a  most  noble  one." 

The  great  noble  mused  for  a  moment, 
while  the  people  wondered  what  would  hap- 
pen next.  He  was  a  kindly  man,  and  wanted 
to  persuade,  even  though  he  had  the  author- 
ity to  command.  So  he  said  gently,  "To  be 
sure,  yours  is  a  noble  calling,  but  that  of  the 
painter  is  noble  also,  and  since  your  boy 
shows  such  aptitude  for  being  a  son  of  brush 
and  canvas,  why  not  let  him  follow  his  desire 
and  become  one?" 

It  was  a  difficult  moment  for  the  father, 
for  ever  since  Guido  was  born  he  had 
dreamed  he  would  be  a  musician,  a  better  and 
more  successful  one  than  he  had  been,  and 


THE  LIGHT  OF  GUIDO'S  LAMP    213 

hopes  of  years  are  not  put  aside  easily.  But 
he  was  a  sensible  man,  and  a  kindly  one,  and 
although  his  eyes  were  sad  his  face  held  a 
smile  as  he  answered,  "So  be  it,  for  I  have 
no  wish  to  warp  my  boy's  career.  A  painter 
he  shall  become,  if  only  he  will  be  a  good 
one." 

"That  only  the  years  can  prove,"  the  duke 
replied,  "but  it  is  my  belief  that  they  will  tell 
a  wonderful  story." 

Thus,  young  Guido  Reni  came  to  be  ap- 
prenticed to  the  artist  Calvart.  Thus,  as  an 
old-time  biographer  says,  "He  passed  from 
the  concert  of  voice  to  the  concert  of  colors." 

Rich,  eventful  days  followed  that  morn- 
ing when  he  roamed  from  the  Bolognini 
garden  into  the  studio  of  the  palace,  for 
his  passion  for  work  and  the  rapidity  of 
his  progress  was  amazing  to  teacher  and  fel- 
low pupils.  Soon  he  began  to  draw  from  re- 
liefs and  from  life,  and  four  years  later, 
when  only  thirteen,  had  advanced  so  far  that 
Calvart  appointed  him  to  teach,  and  it  seemed 
that  the  prophecy  of  the  Lord  of  Bologna 
would  be  fulfilled. 

By  the  time  he  was  eighteen  he  painted 


214  BOYHOOD  STORIES 

backgrounds  for  all  the  pictures  in  the  studio, 
and  often  his  work,  after  being  slightly  re- 
touched, was  sold  as  the  master's  own.  His 
fellow  pupils  thought  he  had  learned  all  it 
was  possible  for  an  art  student  to  learn,  but 
Guido  had  no  such  idea.  He  knew  there  are 
no  play  places  on  the  road  to  success,  and 
constantly  he  toiled  and  studied.  He  visited 
other  studios,  especially  that  of  the  Caracci 
Brothers,  then  among  the  most  illustrious 
painters  of  Italy,  observing  all  that  was  best 
in  their  work  and  striving  to  put  it  into  his 
own.  After  a  time  Calvart  became  jealous 
of  the  pupil  who  already  excelled  him,  criti- 
cized his  pictures  unkindly,  and  one  day 
rubbed  out  his  most  careful  work.  Guido 
knew  it  was  far  better  than  much  that  had 
won  the  master's  praise,  and  could  not  bear 
such  injustice.  So  he  fled  from  the  studio 
and  became  a  pupil  of  the  Caracci. 

From  that  time  forth  his  progress  was  al- 
most phenomenal.  He  began  filling  orders, 
and  his  work  was  so  pleasing  to  his  patrons 
that  they  wanted  him  to  paint  other  pictures 
and  still  others,  until  it  seemed  he  would 
eclipse  the  Caracci  even  as  he  had  eclipsed 


THE  LIGHT  OF  GUIDO'S  LAMP    215 

Calvart.  In  fact,  one  day  when  Ludovicio 
was  instructing  him  how  to  paint  the  flesh  of 
Httle  children,  Annibale,  one  of  the  brothers, 
cried,  "Do  not  teach  that  fellow  so  much,  or 
some  day  he  will  know  more  than  the  whole 
of  us!  He  is  never  contented,  but  contin- 
ually searches  into  new  matters.  Remem- 
ber, Ludovicio,  some  day  this  fellow  will 
make  you  sigh." 

And  the  prophecy  came  true.  In  a  very 
short  time  young  Guido  Reni  was  the  glory 
of  Bologna,  and  then  he  went  to  Rome, 
where  he  worked  as  steadily  and  painstak- 
ingly as  he  had  worked  in  the  studio  of  Cal- 
vart. One  idea  he  kept  ever  before  him — 
the  perfect  picture — and  no  matter  how 
splendid  a  work  seemed,  or  how  much  praise 
it  received  from  patrons  and  critics,  he  would 
not  let  it  leave  his  hand  as  long  as  he  saw  the 
tiniest  detail  that  could  be  improved. 

Believing  his  chosen  calling  to  be  the 
noblest  in  the  world,  he  tried  to  make  every 
effort  worthy  of  it.  He  was  proud  of  being 
of  the  brotherhood  of  painters,  and  had  no 
patience  with  those  of  his  colleagues  who 
fawned  at  the  feet  of  royalty,  grateful  for 


2i6  BOYHOOD  STORIES 

any  favor  the  high  born  chose  to  bestow. 
One  day  he  was  walking  with  the  sculptor 
Cordiere,  who  suddenly  stepped  into  the 
street  and  ambled  along  beside  the  coach  of 
Cardinal  Borghese,  to  tell  him  of  some  work 
he  was  doing.  Guido  refused  to  join  him, 
and  when  his  friend  returned  to  his  side,  be- 
rated him  soundly  for  having  acted  like  a 
menial. 

"How  can  you  expect  to  win  the  esteem 
of  the  Pope  and  the  highest  in  the  land," 
he  said,  "since  you  trot  so  contentedly 
after  a  cardinal's  carriage?  Such  con- 
duct is  not  seemly  for  men  of  our  profes- 
sion." 

Hundreds  of  commissions  came  to  him  in 
Rome,  among  them  being  one  to  fresco  the 
casino  of  the  Rospigliosi  Palace.  Guido 
went  to  work  with  all  his  wonted  zeal,  deter- 
mined to  create  something  finer  than  he  had 
done  before,  and  he  succeeded  so  trium- 
phantly that  when  the  task  was  finished  all 
of  Rome  marveled  at  his  achievement,  just 
as  the  world  has  marveled  at  it  ever  since. 
For  he  had  painted  "The  Aurora,"  that  glori- 
ous masterpiece  in  which  the  god  of  day, 


THE  LIGHT  OF  GUIDO'S  LAMP    217 

attended  by  a  group  of  dancing  Hours, 
dashes  along  in  his  chariot  beside  a  turquoise 
sea  to  usher  in  the  morning.  Yes,  the  years 
were  telHng  their  story,  just  as  the  Lord  of 
Bologna  believed  they  would. 

This  great  fresco  established  Guido  as 
the  idol  of  Italy  and  the  master  painter  of 
his  day.  Commissions  came  to  him  in  such 
numbers  that  he  could  not  execute  half  of 
them,  while  many  other  artists  were  idle. 
And  so  it  was  throughout  his  long,  eventful 
career.  One  brilliant  success  followed  an- 
other. One  noble  creation  paved  the  way 
for  something  nobler,  and  like  one  inspired 
he  toiled  and  achieved.  Often  he  had  to 
contend  with  the  jealousies  of  less  gifted 
painters,  but  usually  the  kindliness  of  his  na- 
ture overcame  them.  He  was  courted  like 
a  lord  of  the  land — in  fact,  the  mightiest  of 
Italy  paid  him  homage,  and  once,  as  he  re- 
turned to  Rome  from  a  visit  to  Bologna,  the 
carriages  of  princes  and  cardinals  met  him  at 
the  Ponte  Molle,  on  the  Flaminian  Way,  each 
vying  with  the  other  for  the  honor  of  bearing 
him  into  the  capital.  The  high  born  of  the 
Imperial  City  pointed  with  pride  to  his  house, 


2i8  BOYHOOD  STORIES 

saying,  ''Yonder  lives  Master  Reni,  the 
painter." 

When  he  died  his  body  was  borne  to  its 
resting  place  amid  pomp  and  ceremony  sel- 
dom seen  even  in  Rome,  the  pompous  city. 
Knights  and  prelates  in  splendid  attire,  la- 
borers and  artisans,  men,  women,  and  chil- 
dren of  all  ranks  and  ages,  thronged  the 
street  through  which  the  procession  moved 
on  its  way  to  the  church  of  San  Domenico — 
"So  many,"  one  of  the  old  chroniclers  states, 
"that  the  like  of  it-  was  never  seen  before,  not 
even  when  Rome  celebrated  its  deliverance 
from  the  plague."  Every  one  mourned  the 
passing  of  the  artist  and  man,  for  he  had 
been  kindly,  charitable,  and  magnanimous, 
and  numbered  friends  among  all  classes. 
Thousands  that  day  thought  of  the  kind 
deeds  done  and  favors  granted  by  him,  who, 
though  lionized  by  all  of  Italy,  never  lost  his 
graciousness  and  human  sympathy.  And 
men  think  of  them  still  as  they  marvel  at  the 
beauty  of  his  works. 

Thus,  the  years  told  a  wonderful  story. 
Thus,  through  the  glory  of  his  pictures,  the 
light  of  Guido's  lamp  shines  down  the  ages, 


THE  LIGHT  OF  GUIDO'S  LAMP    219 

and  helps  to  brighten  the  world  to-day,  just 
as  three  centuries  ago  the  ray  beheld  by  the 
night  watchman  gleamed  through  the  dark- 
ness of  old  Bologna  town. 


OLD  JAN'S  TWILIGHT  TALE 


XII 
OLD  JAN'S  TWILIGHT  TALE 

HIS  face  was  wrinkled  and  his  back  was 
bent  and  his  step  was  faltering  and 
slow,  but  he  was  the  best  story-teller  in  all 
Copenhagen,  and  wherever  he  went  a  group 
of  children  followed  until  he  seemed  like  an- 
other Pied  Piper.  In  all  his  seventy  years 
he  had  not  grown  too  old  to  have  an  interest 
in  their  sports  and  games,  nor  was  he  ever 
too  busy  to  refuse  a  bit  of  advice  when  they 
asked  it.  That  is  why  he  put  aside  the  book 
he  was  reading  and  went  out  on  the  stoop,  for 
just  then  merry  voices  sounded  in  from  the 
street  and  he  knew  the  neighborhood  boys 
and  girls  were  having  a  frolic  there. 

They  saw  him  as  he  came  out  of  the  door- 
way, and  one  of  the  number  called  blithely, 
"Ah,  there  's  Jan  now !  I  wonder  if  he  has 
a  story  for  us?" 

And  with  a  rush  and  bound  they  sur- 
223 


224  BOYHOOD  STORIES 

rounded  him  and  began  a  chorus  of  pleas. 

''A  sea  story,"  called  gray-eyed  Charlotte 
Ruleson,  whose  father  was  a  boatman,  and 
who  had  heard  many  of  the  weird  yarns 
floating  about  among  sailor  folk;  *'one  with 
pirates  and  lots  of  shooting."  While  an- 
other begged  for  a  ghost  tale  with  a  big 
spook,  and  still  another  wanted  a  fairy  story 
with  witches  and  goblins  and  all  those  crea- 
tures who  play  pranks  in  Elfland.  Each  had 
his  request  for  the  kind  of  tale  he  liked  best, 
but  one  slender  boy,  with  a  shock  of  yellow 
hair  and  a  face  like  a  youthful  viking,  said 
nothing.  He  just  stood  and  watched  the  old 
man,  with  a  look  of  pleading  in  his  lobelia- 
blue  eyes. 

Jan  saw  it,  and  knew  that  he,  too,  had  his 
desire,  but  for  some  reason  had  not  voiced  it. 
So  he  turned  to  him  and  asked,  "And  you, 
Bertel  Thorwaldsen,  what  do  you  want?" 

As  he  spoke,  a  smile  of  rare  sweetness 
came  over  the  lad's  strong  face,  and  he 
answered  in  a  voice  that  was  low  and  vibrant, 
"A  hunting  story,  if  you  please;  one  of  the 
days  when  you  were  in  India." 

A  chorus  of  laughter  sounded  from  the 


OLD  JAN'S  TWILIGHT  TALE    225 

group,  and  smiles  and  grimaces  were  on  al- 
most every  face. 

"You  might  know  he  'd  ask  for  something 
about  animals,"  exclaimed  Christine  Jacob- 
sen.  ''Most  of  the  time  he  is  n't  sketching 
he  puts  in  watching  them,  and  the  other  day 
the  school-master  said  if  he  knew  half  as 
much  about  his  lessons  as  he  knows  about 
horses  and  cattle,  he  would  n't  get  the  ferule 
so  often.  You  'd  think  he  'd  get  over  dream- 
ing about  them  when  they  get  him  into 
trouble." 

"Yes,  especially  after  what  they  did  for 
him  to-day,"  remarked  Hals  Sorensen.  "He 
forgot  to  take  his  father's  dinner  because  he 
was  at  the  Amalienborg  making  a  picture  of 
the  king's  riding  horse,  and  poor  Gottshalk 
Thorwaldsen  had  to  go  without  eating  after 
working  all  morning  over  his  figure-heads. 
So  now  there  's  talk  of  taking  Master  Bertel 
out  of  school  and  sending  him  to  Jutland  to 
work  in  the  fields." 

"We  all  know  that,  Hals  Sorensen,"  Chris- 
tine broke  in,  "so  I  don't  see  why  you  need 
tell  it  again.  My  mother  says  it's  a  pity, 
too,  because  Bertel  has  a  real  talent  for  draw- 


226  BOYHOOD  STORIES 

ing,  and  if  his  father  'd  only  let  him  help  with 
his  figure-heads  his  own  work  would  be  bet- 
ter and  people  would  stop  saying  he  has  a  no- 
account  son." 

Christine's  mother  was  the  daughter  of  an 
artist,  so  the  girl  knew  that  when  a  love  of 
drawing  is  born  with  one  he  can  no  more  put 
it  aside  than  he  can  do  without  air  and  water. 
Her  sympathy  and  understanding  had  often 
smoothed  the  boy's  path  when  his  comrades 
ridiculed  him,  and  he  looked  at  her  now  with 
kindly  eyes. 

Jan,  too,  smiled  at  her,  because  loyalty  is 
always  admirable,  and  he  liked  her  defense  of 
the  boy.  He  knew  all  about  the  forgotten 
dinner  and  the  gossip  among  the  men  in  the 
shipyard,  that  Bertel  ought  to  be  taken  from 
school  and  put  to  farming,  for  he  worked 
there  himself  and  had  urged  the  father  not 
to  be  too  hard  on  the  lad  while  all  the  others 
recommended  punishment.  With  all  his 
wrinkles  and  white  hair  he  still  had  enough 
youth  in  his  heart  to  know  that  the  best- 
meaning  boys  sometimes  forget,  and  had  suf- 
ficient faith  to  believe  that  Bertel's  knowing 
his  father  had  gone  hungry  was  a  punish- 


'And   yuu,   Bertel   Thorwaldsen,    what   do   you   want?" 


OLD  JAN'S  TWILIGHT  TALE    229 

ment  that  would  keep  him  from  forgetting 
in  the  future.  Always  before  he  had  come 
in  good  time  with  the  pail,  and  often,  while 
the  elder  Thorwaldsen  ate,  would  correct  the 
drawings  from  which  were  carved  figure- 
heads for  merchant  vessels,  and  many  a  piece 
of  work  was  better  because  of  the  boy's 
touch.  A  lad  like  that,  he  reasoned,  was  not 
bad  at  heart,  and  it  was  well  to  be  lenient 
with  him  for  once.     So  he  spoke  very  kindly. 

"I  know  all  about  it,  Hals,"  he  said,  "but 
I  believe  Bertel  has  had  his  lesson,  and  it 
won't  happen  again.  I  am  sure  his  father 
thinks  so  too,  because  just  before  I  came 
home  to-night  he  told  me  that  after  this  he 
intends  to  take  him  to  the  shipyard  every  day 
to  help  with  the  cuts,  which  will  be  far  better 
than  working  in  the  Jutland  fields.  So  let  us 
talk  of  something  that  will  make  no  one  un- 
happy." 

And  quieting  their  remarks,  they  sat  down 
beside  him  to  listen  to  a  story. 

Away  to  the  north  the  sky  glowed  with  a 
soft  pink  light,  as  if  a  sheet  of  rose  leaves 
had  been  spread  across  it,  and  downward, 
from  the  mass  of  color,  streamers  like  varie- 


230  BOYHOOD  STORIES 

gated  ribbons  floated  toward  the  horizon, 
faint  at  first,  but  fast  deepening  to  the  gray 
that  comes  with  the  approach  of  night,  and 
Jan  watched  the  changing  tints  with  dreamy 
eyes.  Bertel's  request  for  a  hunting  story 
had  brought  memories  of  twilight  tints  in 
other  skies,  and  of  the  far-off  time  when 
every  day  was  filled  with  thrilling  adventure. 
For  he  had  not  always  been  a  cargo  loader  in 
the  Copenhagen  shipyard,  but  once  had  trav- 
eled in  distant  lands  and  hunted  game  with 
the  best  sports  of  Europe.  But  he  was  old 
now,  and  the  most  exciting  things  life  held 
were  the  evening  visits  of  the  children,  to 
whom  the  tales  of  the  one-time  wanderer 
were  like  the  pages  of  some  splendid  ro- 
mance. So  he  began  a  story  of  his  Indian 
days,  one  which  he  said  was  the  most  vividly 
remembered  of  all  his  hunting  experiences. 

Blue-eyed  Bertel  moved  closer,  and  sat 
with  glowing  eyes  as  the  old  man  described, 
in  a  picturesque  way,  the  jungle  where  he  had 
hunted  in  his  youth.  The  boy  could  almost 
see  the  trees  with  their  trailing  moss,  the 
lush,  tropical  vines  that  swung  ropes  of 
bloom  from  the  branches,  and  the  banyan 


OLD  JAN'S  TWILIGHT  TALE    231 

thicket,  made  hideous  at  night  by  the  cries  of 
savage  beasts.  He  had  often  heard  of  how 
the  natives  hunted  with  javelins,  and  how, 
when  the  first  European  sportsmen  came, 
they  acted  as  guides  to  the  strangers,  but  it 
was  all  new  and  thrilling  when  recounted  by 
the  one-time  huntsman. 

Jan  then  told  of  a  guide  sighting  a  lion,  a 
magnificent  creature  that  well  might  have 
been  the  king  of  all  that  jungle. 

"The  fellow  sent  his  javelin  at  him,  and 
struck  the  beast  full  in  the  breast.  And,  ever 
since  that  day,  I  think  of  a  lion,  not  as  a  wild 
creature  of  the  woods,  but  as  one  guarding 
with  his  life  all  it  holds  most  dear.  Be- 
cause," he  went  on,  "his  mate  was  just  be- 
yond with  her  two  cubs,  and  as  the  iron 
struck  him  he  lunged  forward,  with  defiance 
in  his  eyes,  as  if  to  say,  'You  shall  not  harm 
them  until  you  have  killed  me.'  " 

Bertel  thought  a  great  deal  about  the  story, 
and  for  a  long  time  afterward,  when  men 
talked  of  bravery,  he  saw  a  lion  in  the  Indian 
jungle,  standing  with  a  javelin  in  its  breast, 
yet  defying  the  hunters  to  touch  its  mate  and 
little  ones.     And  often  when  he  went  to  visit 


2Z2  BOYHOOD  STORIES 

Jan  he  would  ask  him  to  repeat  the  tale. 
Then,  some  one,  seeing  him  at  work  on  the 
figure-heads  in  the  shipyard,  persuaded  his 
father  that  such  talent  for  drawing  and  carv- 
ing ought  to  be  cultivated  and  he  was 
sent  to  the  Royal  Academy  of  Fine  Arts. 
Throughout  that  winter  there  were  sketches 
to  be  made  in  the  evenings,  so  there  was  no 
time  for  visits.  Before  summer  came  Jan 
died,  and  there  were  no  more  twilight  tales. 
But  he  remembered  those  he  had  heard,  and, 
most  vividly  of  all,  that  of  the  wounded  lion 
in  the  Indian  jungle. 

Years  passed,  with  summers  of  Denmark's 
lovely  twilights  and  winters  made  glorious 
by  northern  lights.  Bertel  still  worked  at 
his  drawing,  and  at  carving  too,  modeling 
figures  he  hoped  some  day  to  fashion  in 
marble.  But  marble  costs  much  money,  and 
Thorwaldsen  was  poor.  He  went  to  Rome, 
hoping  in  that  home  of  art  to  find  some  one 
who  would  give  him  an  order,  that  he  might 
prove  what  he  could  do.  But  no  order  came. 
Still  he  worked  on  undaunted,  even  when  the 
first  model  of  his  "J^^on"  crumbled  into 
fragments  because  he  was  too  poor  to  have 


OLD  JAN'S  TWILIGHT  TALE    233 

it  cast.  He  struggled  on  until  it  seemed  use- 
less to  hope  longer.  Then,  heart  broken  and 
discouraged,  he  packed  his  trunk  to  return  to 
Copenhagen. 

But  it  was  not  meant  for  Bertel  Thorwald- 
sen  to  die  unknown.  An  English  banker, 
whose  name,  by  the  way,  was  Hope,  heard  of 
the  artist,  and  came  to  see  his  work.  To 
Thorwaldsen  he  seemed  as  good  as  his 
name,  for  he  gave  him  an  order  for  a  statue, 
which  was  so  finely  executed  that  the  genius 
discovered  long  before  in  the  Copenhagen 
shipyard  came  to  be  recognized  all  over 
Europe.  Order  after  order  came,  and  he 
carved  so  rapidly  and  exquisitely  that  the 
whole  world  was  amazed.  Not  since  the 
days  of  the  old  masters  had  any  wrought 
such  wonders  with  chisels  and  marble,  and 
he  was  called  to  almost  every  continental  city 
that  wished  to  erect  a  splendid  statue.  The 
Danes,  who  had  thought  him  a  worthless  fel- 
low, no  longer  talked  about  Gottshalk's  no- 
account  son,  but  spoke  proudly  of  "Our 
Thorwaldsen." 

Just  as  he  was  rising  to  his  zenith,  Swit- 
zerland was  eager  to  erect  a  monument  to 


234  BOYHOOD  STORIES 

the  memory  of  her  children  who  had  died  in 
defense  of  the  Tuileries.  All  the  world 
knows  how,  when  Louis  XVI  was  taken  be- 
fore the  assembly  that  was  to  deprive  him  of 
his  power,  a  mob  attacked  the  palace.  The 
Swiss  guards  might  have  driven  it  back,  but 
a  messenger  from  the  king  came  with  word 
that  they  should  not  fire  into  the  crowd,  but 
were  to  retire.  Within  the  palace  was  a 
handful  of  warders  whom  the  royal  edict  did 
not  reach,  and  they,  not  knowing  of  the  or- 
der, tried  to  defend  the  place.  But  too  weak 
to  hold  out  against  the  populace,  and  too 
faithful  to  desert  their  post,  they  were  mas- 
sacred without  mercy.  What  was  more  fit- 
ting than  that  the  mountain  land  that  nur- 
tured them  should  raise  an  undying  tribute 
to  their  memory? 

General  Plyffer  von  Altishofen,  an  officer 
of  the  guard  who  escaped  from  the  mob,  had 
returned  to  Lucerne  and  was  living  in  re- 
tirement there.  It  was  his  idea  to  erect  a 
monument  to  honor  his  fallen  comrades,  and 
he  made  known  his  plan. 

All  Switzerland  responded.  From  every 
canton,  from  every  lake-gemmed  valley,  and 


OLD  JAN'S  TWILIGHT  TALE    235 

upland  Alp,  came  a  manifestation  of  the 
spirit  that  has  made  the  country  a  fitting  land 
of  Tell,  and  the  voice  of  the  people  said,  "We 
will  make  it  a  national  monument  to  our 
heroic  dead." 

Funds  began  to  pour  in,  the  amount  grow- 
ing steadily  and  rapidly  until  enough  was 
realized  to  erect  something  very  splendid  and 
very  enduring. 

"Who  shall  the  sculptor  be  ?"  was  then  the 
question. 

And  in  answer  was  asked  another  ques- 
tion, "Who  but  Thorwaldsen?" 

So  to  Italy,  where  the  magician  of  the 
North  was  at  work,  came  a  call  from  crys- 
tal lake  and  snow-capped  peak  that  he  should 
come  to  Lucerne.  And  to  Lucerne  he  went, 
to  begin  the  work  that  was  to  immortalize 
him. 

But  he  had  a  hard  problem  to  solve. 
What  was  a  theme  noble  enough  to  commem- 
orate such  heroism?  It  must  be  something 
grandly  appropriate,  yet  different  from 
every  monument  in  the  world,  for  the  spirit 
of  patriotism  was  afire  in  Switzerland,  and 
nothing  commonplace  would  be  considered. 


236  BOYHOOD  STORIES 

One  sketch  after  another  was  made,  only 
to  be  cast  aside  as  being  a  conception  not  big 
and  fine  enough.  Then  one  night  as  he  lay 
thinking  about  it,  when  the  wind  whipped 
the  water  of  the  lake  until  it  sounded  like 
the  old  Baltic  beating  against  his  own  Dan- 
ish shores,  there  came  a  memory  of  Jan's 
twilight  tale. 

''Standing  with  a  javelin  in  its  breast,"  the 
old  man  had  said,  "yet  defying  the  hunters 
to  touch  its  mate  and  little  ones." 

Nothing  could  be  more  appropriate  than 
that,  he  thought,  and  the  next  day  he  sub- 
mitted the  design,  a  wounded  lion  guarding 
the  escutcheon  of  France. 

The  men  of  the  committee  were  delighted. 
It  was  an  unusual  theme,  and  worthy  of  such 
a  memorial.     So  the  model  was  begun. 

Thorwaldsen  had  never  seen  a  live  lion, 
but  that  was  no  insurmountable  obstacle  to 
him.  He  studied  old  statues  for  form  and 
proportion,  reading,  drawing,  and  working 
night  and  day,  and  when  the  finished  model 
suited  him  it  was  chiseled  out  of  native 
granite  in  the  general's  garden,  against  a 
rugged  clifif  overlooking  the  lake  and  facing 


OLD  JAN'S  TWILIGHT  TALE    237 

the  peaks,  a  fitting  tribute  to  the  children  of 
the  Alps. 

And  did  Switzerland  approve?  Ah,  yes. 
The  day  of  its  unveiling  was  made  a  national 
holiday.  From  every  canton  throngs  of 
people  poured  into  the  city,  singing  the  songs 
of  Helvetia  and  showering  honors  upon  a 
Northern  artist.  Yet  none  knew  whence 
came  his  inspiration,  for  not  until  many 
years  afterward  did  he  reveal  the  secret. 
Then,  walking  one  evening  with  his  loved 
friend,  Hans  Christian  Andersen,  he  told  the 
cargo-loader's  story. 

'T  was  just  a  lad  when  I  heard  it,"  he 
said,  "but  I  never  forgot  it." 

Thus  it  became  known  that  old  Jan's  tale 
of  a  wounded  lion  in  an  Indian  jungle,  told 
at  twilight  to  a  blue-eyed  boy  in  Copenhagen, 
became  the  inspiration  of  the  matchless  mon- 
ument that  to-day  looks  out  over  the  clear 
waters  of  the  Lake  of  the  Four  Cantons,  and 
is  known  the  world  around  as  "The  Lion  of 
Lucerne." 


WHEN  THE  PRINCESS  PASSED 


XIII 
WHEN  THE  PRINCESS  PASSED 

THE  little  Italian  town  was  gay  in  its 
holiday  dress,  for  the  Princess  was 
coming.  On  this  smiling  morning  of  early 
April  Veronica  Gambara,  flower  of  the 
house  of  Pio,  was  to  ride  in  state  to  the  palace 
to  become  the  bride  of  Ghiberto  of  Correg- 
gio,  and  it  seemed  that  nature  vied  with  man 
in  welcoming  her.  Under  a  sky  of  tur- 
quoise, roses  red  as  flame  and  yellow  as  the 
gold  of  Ophir  bloomed  in  odorous  array.  A 
thousand  banners  swung  like  pendant  rain- 
bows across  the  line  of  march,  and  a 
thousand  gaudy  sashes  flashed  on  the  waists 
of  village  girls.  Mummers  sang  their 
blithest  melodies,  and  in  gardens  beyond  the 
crowd  larks  trilled  to  the  sun.  Yes,  it  was 
a  fitting  day  for  the  union  of  two  lordly 
houses. 

Some  one  gave  a  shout  and  the  crowd 
241 


242  BOYHOOD  STORIES 

pressed  nearer  the  street,  for  the  procession 
was  coming,  and  with  eager  eyes  the  people 
watched  the  approach  of  the  splendid,  stately 
cavalcade.  Now  they  could  see  the  advance 
guard  of  soldiers,  now  the  red  uniforms  of 
the  outriders,  the  gilding  of  the  royal  coach, 
and  the  ivory  and  purple  robes  of  Veronica, 
all  gorgeous  in  the  sun.  Resplendent  ban- 
ners gleamed  before  and  behind  her,  smiling 
faces  greeted  her  as  she  smiled  back  at  them, 
and  cheers  rang  out  the  homage  of  the 
townsfolk  as  they  nodded  to  each  other  say- 
ing, ''She  is  well  suited  to  become  the  Lady 
of  Correggio."  But  one  sturdy  peasant  lad 
was  gravely  silent,  although  his  eyes  shone 
as  if  they  had  beheld  a  vision.  He  was  a 
stocky,  short  fellow  not  quite  fourteen,  and 
his  name  was  Antonio  Allegri.  When  the 
others  hurried  to  the  plaza  to  join  in  the  fes- 
tivities, he  turned  toward  the  cottage  of  the 
village  baker — a  low,  stone,  whitewashed 
building  with  a  trellis  of  climbing  roses  and 
a  garden  plot  where  grew  artichokes  and  len- 
tils— and  people  wondered  why  he  went. 
But  they  soon  forgot  about  him  in  thoughts 
of  other  things. 


WHEN  THE  PRINCESS  PASSED  243 

All  afternoon  merriment  ran  high  in  the 
town  of  Correggio.  Up  in  the  palace  great 
folk  sat  at  the  wedding  feast,  and  down  in 
the  public  plaza  the  townspeople  vented  their 
joy  in  dancing.  Those  who  could  afford  a 
present,  sent  it  as  a  token  of  good  will  to 
Veronica,  while  those  who  had  nothing  to 
give  gathered  wayside  flowers  and  piled  them 
before  the  altar  of  the  Virgin,  praying  that 
a  blessing  might  rest  on  the  head  of  Ghiber- 
to's  bride.  Every  one  paid  homage  to  the 
Princess  by  joining  in  the  celebration,  every 
one  but  the  baker's  boy.  He  lay  in  the  sha- 
dow of  the  artichokes  behind  the  white- 
washed cottage  and  seemed  to  be  very  busy 
with  something. 

Toward  sundown  Catarina,  his  sister, 
came  from  the  place  of  the  dancers  and  went 
into  the  house  to  add  a  bit  of  ribbon  to  her 
gown.  Her  cheeks  flamed  in  the  joy  of  the 
occasion,  for  it  was  a  day  such  as  Correggio 
never  had  seen,  and  she  was  glad  it  came  in 
her  time,  instead  of  before  or  after  it.  She 
wondered  about  Antonio,  who  had  not  been 
to  the  plaza  throughout  the  afternoon,  and 
failing  to  find  him  in  the  cottage,  stood  a  mo- 


244  BOYHOOD  STORIES 

ment  under  the  roses  that  crept  over  the 
doorway,  and  then  she  saw  him  at  the  edge 
of  the  garden. 

''Fratello  mio  (brother  mine),"  she  ex- 
claimed, "why  do  you  not  dance  with  us  in 
honor  of  the  Lady  Veronica?  It  is  not  right 
that  you  fail  in  homage  to  the  Princess." 

The  sturdy  lad  in  the  peasant  smock  came 
toward  her  as  she  spoke. 

'T  do  not  fail,"  he  replied.  'T  pay  homage 
to  the  Princess  with  a  picture." 

Catarina  clapped  her  hands. 

"A  picture!"  she  exclaimed.  *'Do  let  me 
see  it." 

The  boy  handed  her  a  charcoal  sketch, 
and  she  sat  down  on  the  step  to  look  at  it. 
She  was  proud  of  this  brother  of  hers,  whose 
drawing  more  than  once  had  caused  the 
townsfolk  to  open  their  eyes  wide.  Almost 
a  year  before  the  schoolmaster  declared  he 
had  talent  and  might  become  a  painter  some 
day,  and  since  then  he  had  improved  much. 
Her  eyes  brightened  with  pleasure  as  she 
studied  this  sketch,  for  to  her  it  seemed  the 
finest  he  had  ever  made.  It  was  a  small 
drawing,   no   larger   than   her   two   brown 


WHEN  THE  PRINCESS  PASSED   245 

hands,  but  it  represented  a  company  of  an- 
gels scattering  flowers  and  fruit  in  the  path 
of  Veronica  Gambara,  and  every  figure  was 
perfectly  proportioned  and  clear.  She  asked 
that  she  might  keep  it  to  show  to  some  of  her 
friends,  tucked  it  into  her  bodice,  and  to- 
gether they  went  to  the  plaza  to  join  the 
revelers,  where  there  was  to  be  a  feast  for 
the  townsfolk  provided  by  Ghiberto  in  honor 
of  his  bride. 

Then,  gay  indeed  was  the  evening!  Bon- 
fires were  lighted  and  torches  gleamed 
through  the  olive  trees,  turning  the  arti- 
chokes and  lentils  in  the  garden  patches  into 
fantastic  creatures,  and  dancing  feet  sped  to 
low,  delicious  music  as  accordions  swelled 
and  shrank  between  sensitive,  skilful  fingers. 
Now  some  merry  masker  broke  through  the 
crowd  and  offered  a  nosegay  to  whoever 
could  guess  his  identity,  now  a  husky  village 
youth  gave  an  exhibition  of  physical  skill, 
Antonio  with  the  rest.  At  midnight  the  fes- 
tivities ended  in  a  blaze  of  artificial  light,  and 
the  people  went  to  their  homes  to  remember 
the  glad  holiday  through  many  a  year  to 
come,  to  give  to  their  children  and  their  chil- 


246  BOYHOOD  STORIES 

dren's  children  the  story  of  the  time  when 
Veronica  came  among  them  as  a  bride.  But 
little  did  they  know  that  day  was  the  begin- 
ning of  something  that  will  be  a  glory  to  Cor- 
reggio  as  long  as  the  world  lasts. 

Now  it  happened  that  Catarina  had  a 
friend  who  was  a  sister  to  one  of  the  guards 
at  the  palace.  To  her  she  showed  the  draw- 
ing, and  the  girl,  thinking  it  quite  wonderful, 
took  it  to  the  soldier  brother,  who  called  his 
captain's  attention  to  it,  and  finally  it  came 
under  the  notice  of  Veronica  herself.  It 
pleased  the  Princess  to  be  portrayed  so  de- 
lightfully, and  amazed  her  to  know  it  was 
done  by  a  fourteen-year-old.  Like  most  of 
the  great  folk  of  Italy  of  that  day,  she  under- 
stood art  and  recognized  talent  when  she 
found  it,  and  that  very  afternoon  the  baker's 
boy  was  summoned  into  her  presence. 

He  was  putting  loaves  into  the  stone  oven 
when  the  messenger  came  with  the  word, 
and  his  ruddy  face  was  redder  still  from  the 
heat.  Upon  hearing  that  the  Princess 
wanted  to  see  him,  he  believed  there  must  be 
some  mistake,  and  after  he  got  to  the  palace 
wished  very  much  he  had  not  gone.     Being 


WHEN  THE  PRINCESS  PASSED  247 

short  and  stocky  and  rather  clumsy,  he  was 
much  abashed  in  the  presence  of  the  royal 
lady.  He  was  at  home  in  his  father's  white- 
washed cottage  and  in  the  garden  patch  in 
the  shadow  of  the  artichokes,  where  he  bent 
over  his  paper  and  charcoal  through  many  a 
summer  afternoon,  and  there  he  knew  just 
what  to  do  with  his  hands  and  feet.  But  in 
the  palace  of  Correggio  they  were  woefully 
in  the  way,  and  he  wished  his  peasant  cos- 
tume contained  ruffles  or  pockets  or  some- 
thing where  he  could  hide  them.  But  when 
Veronica  Gambara  began  to  talk  of  pic- 
tures, his  awkwardness  fled.  He  forgot  that 
he  was  a  baker's  son  who  did  not  know  court 
ways,  and  his  eyes  gleamed  as  they  had 
gleamed  that  day  when  the  royal  coach 
went  by. 

The  Lady  of  Correggio  told  him  of  the 
work  of  Andrea  de  Mantegna,  a  most  illus- 
trious artist  of  Mantua,  and  of  Master  Leon- 
ardo da  Vinci,  who  was  then  doing  wonder- 
ful things  in  Milan,  not  far  away,  and  as  he 
listened  fascinated,  exclaimed,  *Tt  is  my 
dream  to  become  a  painter !" 

Then  Veronica  smiled  that  rare  smile  of 


248  BOYHOOD  STORIES 

hers  that  had  inspired  poets  to  write  sonnets 
and  caused  men  to  call  her,  *'The  flower  of 
the  house  of  Pio,"  and  answered  in  a  low 
voice,  "I  shall  help  to  make  that  dream  come 
true." 

She  kept  her  word.  From  that  day  the 
Lady  of  Correggio  was  the  friend  and  pa- 
tron of  the  baker  boy,  and  from  that  day  An- 
tonio sketched  and  painted  as  he  never  had 
done  before.  He  worked  with  a  mighty  pur- 
pose, for  now  that  Veronica  chose  to  aid  him, 
he  knew  his  father  would  not  stand  in  his 
way  and  insist  that  he  become  a  tradesman, 
as  once  he  had  wished  him  to  do.  Almost 
nothing  is  known  of  his  teachers.  His  uncle 
gave  him  some  instruction,  but  his  talent  was 
so  great  that,  almost  unguided,  it  expressed 
itself  in  work  such  as  Correggio  had  never 
seen. 

Then,  when  seventeen,  something  hap- 
pened that  proved  a  blessing  in  disguise  to 
Antonio  Allegri.  The  plague  broke  out  in 
his  home  town,  and  the  royal  family  and 
many  of  the  people  fled  to  Mantua  for  safety. 
The  young  artist  went  with  the  rest,  and 
there,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  beheld  the 


WHEN  THE  PRINCESS  PASSED  249 

work  of  a  master  painter.  He  began  study- 
ing the  pictures  of  Mantegna  and  learned 
much  that  he  appHed  to  his  own  work.  Re- 
turning to  Correggio  some  months  later  he 
toiled  steadfastly,  and  day  by  day  Veronica, 
who  delighted  in  his  improvement,  marveled 
at  his  progress.  Now  she  was  very  sure  he 
would  become  a  successful  painter,  but  she 
did  not  dream  that  four  centuries  after  her 
time  people  from  all  over  the  world  would 
go  to  the  town  as  to  a  shrine,  not  to  see  the 
palace  where  the  lords  of  the  land  had  lived, 
but  to  behold  the  spot  where  Antonio  the 
baker's  boy  first  stretched  his  canvases,  and 
where  he  lived  and  worked  and  died.  Yet 
that  very  thing  came  to  pass. 

Strange  events  sometimes  shape  the 
careers  of  men,  and  a  strange  and  pictur- 
esque one  now  helped  to  shape  that  of  An- 
tonio Allegri.  In  Parma,  forty  miles  away, 
was  the  Convent  of  San  Paolo,  one  of  the 
richest  institutions  of  Italy.  Its  abbess  was 
Donna  Giovanna  Piacenza,  daughter  of  a 
powerful  nobleman,  and  every  nun  within  its 
walls  was  from  one  of  the  lordly  houses  of 
Italy.     These  women  loved  beautiful  things 


250  BOYHOOD  STORIES 

and  could  afford  to  have  them  around  them. 
The  pavements  over  which  they  walked  were 
adorned  with  exquisite  tile  work,  and  every 
year  or  two  some  artist  was  employed  to 
brighten  the  walls  and  ceilings  with  frescoes. 
One  day  Abbess  Giovanna  made  up  her  mind 
to  have  a  chamber  decorated,  and  hearing 
from  her  friend  Veronica  Gambara  of  the 
excellent  work  of  the  young  painter  of  Cor- 
reggio,  decided  to  employ  him.  So  word 
came  to  Antonio  that  he  should  go  to  Parma, 
and  he  left  the  low  stone  house  among  the 
artichokes  and  started  on  the  way,  walking 
all  the  distance  and  carrying  his  painter's 
supplies  with  him. 

Those  he  passed  thought  him  a  clumsy 
country  peddler  bound  for  the  next  village  to 
sell  his  wares,  and  when  the  Abbess  Gio- 
vanna saw  how  like  a  simple  peasant  he 
looked,  she  feared  she  had  made  a  mistake 
in  entrusting  the  commission  to  this  crude 
youth,  and  wished  she  had  employed  a  fin- 
ished artist.  But  great  was  her  surprise 
when  she  beheld  the  completed  chamber,  and 
she  exclaimed  to  her  legal  adviser,  "All  Italy 


WHEN  THE  PRINCESS  PASSED  251 

will  come  to  honor  this  favorite  of  Ve- 
ronica !" 

But  Antonio  did  not  hear  her  words  of  de- 
light, for  he  was  already  on  his  way  back  to 
Correggio,  hurrying  along  the  dusty  high- 
way toward  the  whitewashed  cottage,  rejoic- 
ing in  the  satisfaction  of  work  well  done. 

This  was  the  beginning  of  great  appoint- 
ments for  him.  The  beauty  of  the  frescoes 
in  the  Convent  of  San  Paolo  soon  became  the 
talk  of  Parma,  and  other  commissions  were 
given  to  the  young  artist.  So  back  to  the 
city  he  went,  first  to  paint  in  the  Church  of 
St.  John  the  Evangelist,  later  in  the  Cathe- 
dral, and  again  his  work  amazed  all  who  saw 
it,  just  as  it  had  amazed  the  abbess  and  the 
nuns,  just  as  it  had  amazed  Veronica  Gam- 
bara  on  that  sunny  April  day.  The  pearl 
and  gold  of  his  flesh  tints,  the  white  and 
orange  and  rose  of  his  draperies,  were  un- 
surpassed even  by  the  master  painters  of 
Italy.  Neither  Raphael  nor  Titian  of  Ca- 
dore  had  produced  more  exquisite  work,  and 
his  fame  traveled.  Orders  came  to  him 
from  princes  and  nobles,  but  while  he  exe- 


252  BOYHOOD  STORIES 

cuted  them  with  wonderful  success,  they  did 
not  spoil  him.  He  was  a  man  of  simple 
tastes  and  went  on  in  the  old,  simple  way. 
Still  he  lived  and  worked  in  the  quiet  of  his 
home  town,  surrounded  by  his  children  and 
those  of  his  sister  Catarina,  and  only  a  few 
times  in  his  life  did  he  leave  it.  Up  in  the 
splendid  city  of  Mantua  dwelt  the  brilliant 
and  beautiful  Isabella  d'Este,  a  princess  pow- 
erful as  she  was  fair.  She  was  the  friend  of 
Veronica  Gambara,  and  several  times  An- 
tonio went  to  her  court.  But  he  was  not  at 
home  there.  He  could  work  better  in  the 
peace  of  Correggio  among  the  peasant  folk 
he  had  known  from  childhood,  and  there  he 
stayed. 

At  that  time  Italy  was  in  the  full  glory  of 
the  Renaissance,  and  not  far  away  were  cities 
where  marvelous  things  were  being  done,  but 
the  baker's  son  did  not  visit  them.  He  never 
saw  the  Venice  of  Titian  and  Tintoretto,  the 
Florence  where  Giotto  and  Michael  Angelo 
and  Andrea  del  Sarto  wrought  their  wiz- 
ardry, the  imperial  city  beside  the  yellow  Ti- 
ber where  Raphael  toiled  and  achieved.  His 
genius  was  so  great  he  did  not  need  to  seek 


WHEN  THE  PRINCESS  PASSED  253 

inspiration  in  the  creations  of  other  men,  but 
found  it  in  the  skies  of  morning  and  evening, 
the  glory  of  the  sun  at  midday,  and  in  the 
deep  blue  silence  of  the  starry  night.  In- 
stead of  gazing  across  the  lagoons  that  glad- 
dened the  eyes  of  the  Venetian  painters,  he 
looked  out  over  a  sea  of  vines  where  vinta- 
gers danced  when  the  harvest  was  over, 
where  scarlet  and  purple  and  orange  head- 
shawls  of  peasant  women,  bending  to  their 
work  in  the  sun,  gave  him  ideas  of  color. 
Instead  of  going  far  to  seek  models,  the  eyes 
and  cheeks  and  lips  of  the  village  girls  be- 
came his  pictured  faces,  while  his  cherubs 
and  angels  were  the  laughing  children  who 
played  in  the  streets  of  his  native  town. 
Perhaps  sometimes  he  dreamed  of  journey- 
ing to  the  Milan  of  Leonardo  da  Vinci.  Per- 
haps he  had  visions  of  some  day  seeing  Rome 
with  its  Vatican  and  Borghese  Villa — per- 
haps, but  we  do  not  know.  We  know  only 
that  he  stayed  on  in  Correggio,  and  that  at 
forty  years  of  age  he  died  there,  in  the  cot- 
tage with  its  trellis  of  climbing  roses  where 
for  so  many  years  he  had  lived  and  worked. 
Then,  as  time  passed,  people  grew  to  ap- 


254  BOYHOOD  STORIES 

preciate  more  and  more  the  genius  of  An- 
tonio Allegri,  and  canvases  for  which  he  had 
received  very  small  sums  became  priceless. 
Every  lord  of  the  land  wanted  to  possess 
something  by  Correggio,  for,  as  was  the  cus- 
tom in  those  days,  they  called  him  by  the 
name  of  his  native  town.  Powerful  nobles 
tried  to  buy  his  work  from  churches  and  con- 
vents that  held  it,  and  sometimes,  being  not 
for  sale,  carried  it  away  by  force.  This 
happened  to  "The  Holy  Night,"  one  of  his 
masterpieces  now  in  the  gallery  of  Dresden. 
The  Duke  of  Modena  tried  to  obtain  it  by 
fair  means,  and,  failing  in  his  aim,  seized  it 
by  foul,  leaving  the  little  town  in  mourning 
when  he  robbed  it  of  its  treasure.  This  glo- 
rious painting  passed  from  one  lordly  house 
to  another,  until  finally,  becoming  the  prop- 
erty of  Augustus  of  Saxony,  it  came  to  be 
one  of  the  art  gems  of  Germany. 

'The  Madonna  of  St.  Jerome,"  generally 
called  "The  Day,"  has  a  similar  story.  For 
many  years  it  remained  in  the  church  for 
which  it  was  painted,  until  the  people,fearing 
for  its  safety,  placed  it  in  the  Cathedral  of 
Parma  under  guard.     But  that  guard  meant 


WHEN  THE  PRINCESS  PASSED  255 

nothing  to  Napoleon  Bonaparte,  who  came 
with  his  army  and  took  it,  carrying  it  off  to 
France.  But  after  many  years  and  through 
much  effort,  Italy  got  it  back,  and  to-day  it 
beautifies  the  c/womo  (cathedral)  from  which 
it  was  stolen,  the  very  one  in  which,  long 
before,  Antonio  set  his  scaffolding  and 
painted  frescoes. 

Many  galleries  in  many  different  lands 
now  glory  in  the  work  of  Correggio.  It  is 
scattered  throughout  Europe,  in  Austria- 
Hungary,  Germany,  England,  France,  Spain, 
and  Russia,  as  well  as  over  Italy,  which 
seems  strange  indeed  when  one  stops  to  think 
that  he  who  painted  these  pictures  was  never 
more  than  forty  miles  away  from  his  native 
town.  But  in  no  one  place  in  the  world  is  as 
much  of  it  to  be  found  as  in  Parma.  The 
Convent  of  San  Paolo,  the  municipal  gallery, 
the  Church  of  St.  John  the  Evangelist,  and 
the  duomo  are  all  rich  in  his  creations. 
There  they  are  to  be  beheld  on  canvas  and  in 
fresco  form,  all  marvelously  beautiful,  all 
flooded  with  that  peculiar  gold  and  pearly 
light,  the  secret  of  which  was  known  to  this 
master  only.     In  this  one  city  his  work  is  to 


256  BOYHOOD  STORIES 

be  seen  in  such  glorious  array  that  Ludwig 
Tieck,  the  German  poet  and  critic,  once  ex- 
claimed in  wonderment,  "Let  no  one  think 
he  has  seen  Italy,  let  no  one  believe  he  has 
learned  the  lofty  secrets  of  art,  until  he  has 
seen  thee  and  thy  cathedral,  O  Parma !" 

By  which  he  means  the  work  of  Antonio 
Allegri,  better  known  as  Correggio,  the  baker 
boy,  who  stood  with  the  gleaming  eyes  of  one 
who  has  beheld  a  vision  when  Princess  Ve- 
ronica Gambara,  the  flower  of  the  house  of 
Pio,  passed  on  her  way  to  the  palace  to  be- 
come the  bride  of  the  young  Lord  Ghiberto. 


THE  JOYOUS  VAGABOND 


XIV 
THE  JOYOUS  VAGABOND 

THE  boy  sprang  to  his  feet  and  leaned 
forward,  listening.  Could  it  be  as 
late  as  that?  It  seemed  not  more  than  ten 
minutes  he  had  dreamed  there  on  the  edge 
of  the  grotto,  and  now  the  cathedral  bells 
were  ringing,  and  he  remembered  that  at 
home  they  would  be  saying  the  Angelus. 
He  bent  his  head  and  clasped  his  hands,  mur- 
muring the  words  his  mother  had  taught  him 
back  there  in  the  fields  of  Lorraine,  when  the 
ocher  of  gloaming  was  on  the  pastures  and 
chimes  sounded  out,  calling  across  the  ham- 
lets from  the  dome  of  Nancy.  Then,  picking 
up  his  cap  and  birch  staff,  he  started  home, 
following  the  goat  trail  to  the  town. 

Briskly,  sturdily  he  swung  on  his  way,  as 
if  to  make  up  for  lingering  so  long.     Then 
suddenly  he  stopped  and  stood  still.     Some 
259 


26o  BOYHOOD  STORIES 

one  was  coming  down  the  road  that  led  from 
the  French  frontier. 

His  big  eyes  grew  bigger  as  he  looked,  as 
if  doubting,  wondering.  Could  he  be  mis- 
taken? Then  a  flush  of  pleasure  overspread 
his  face  and  he  gave  a  joyous  cry. 

"Uncle  Pierre,"  he  called,  *'oh,  Uncle 
Pierre!"  and  ran  toward  the  advancing 
pedestrians. 

There  were  three  of  them,  men  in  caps  and 
garments  not  of  the  Baden  country,  and  they 
were  dust  stained  and  travel  worn.  The 
foremost  of  the  group,  taller  and  more  stur- 
dily built  than  the  others,  smiled  like  one  who 
has  suddenly  heard  good  news. 

"Well,  to  be  sure,"  he  exclaimed  blithely, 
"  'tis  my  own  sister's  lad,  Claude  Gellee." 

And  then  two  brown  hands  were  clasped  in 
greeting. 

Eastward,  below  the  purple  line  of  fir  and 
spruce  that  marked  the  beginning  of  the 
Black  Forest  Mountains,  the  Rhine  moved 
like  a  jeweled  serpent  in  the  sunset,  and  be- 
yond, as  if  guarding  the  treasure,  stood  San- 
tis,  opal-tinted.  There  was  no  fairer  sight 
in  all  Germany,  and  a  gipsy  love  of  the  open 


THE  JOYOUS  VAGABOND     261 

was  in  the  boy's  heart.  It  was  for  a  gUmpse 
of  this  rare  view  he  had  left  his  brother's 
shop  in  Freiburg  and  trudged  three  miles 
across  the  uplands  after  a  hard  day's  work. 
It  was  the  lure  of  sheeny  river  and  fantastic 
peak,  melting  amethyst,  coral,  and  smoke 
gray  into  violet  stretches  of  sky  line,  that 
had  held  him  there  until  sunset  time, 
forgetful  of  the  fact  that  there  were 
chores  to  do  at  home  and  that  he  owed 
much,  very  much,  to  his  brother.  But  now 
he  seemed  not  to  see.  He  talked  eagerly  and 
rapidly,  asking  for  bits  of  news  and  gossip 
from  beyond  the  mountains.  Were  the 
roses  in  the  cure's  garden  as  red  as  ever  this 
summer,  and  did  old  Mere  le  Brun  still  suffer 
from  rheumatism?  It  was  good  to  hear 
from  the  distant  village,  and  the  sound  of  the 
French  tongue  was  sweet  to  his  ears.  For 
Claude  was  not  a  German  lad,  nor  had  his 
childhood  days  been  passed  in  Freiburg. 

Westward,  in  that  green  and  gold  valley 
where  the  Moselle  swings  in  gleaming  fes- 
toons to  meet  the  Rhine,  the  cottage  of  his 
fathers  stood  on  the  plains  of  Nancy.  There 
he  had  lived,  a  merry  peasant  lad,  until  the 


262  BOYHOOD  STORIES 

year  before  when  his  parents  died  and  the 
village  was  no  longer  home.  He  was  just 
twelve  years  old,  but  hereafter  must  make 
his  own  way  in  the  world,  and  realizing  this, 
he  thought  of  a  calling  more  to  his  liking 
than  that  of  a  toiler  in  the  fields.  So  he 
crossed  the  mountains  to  Freiburg,  where  his 
brother  was  established  as  a  wood-carver. 

"Is  n't  he  a  spry  stripling  to  have  come 
alone  and  on  foot  all  the  way  from  Lor- 
raine?" the  uncle  asked  his  companions  as  he 
told  the  story.  ''Did  n't  beg  his  bread  like  a 
worthless  lout,  either,"  he  continued  with 
thrifty  peasant  pride,  "but  earned  it  by 
honest  labor  along  the  way.  And  now  Jean 
writes  he  has  made  much  progress  at  wood- 
carving.     Do  you  like  the  craft,  lad?" 

Claude  nodded,  setting  his  Black  Forest 
cap  farther  back  on  his  head  as  he  spoke. 

"Yes,  it  is  fun  to  see  the  figures  grow  out 
of  the  blocks." 

And  he  gave  a  glowing  description  of  life 
in  Freiburg  and  home  with  his  brother. 

They  were  near  the  town  now,  so  near  that 
the  Gothic  spire  of  the  Munster  seemed  di- 
rectly overhead,  and  half  way  up  a  narrow 


THE  JOYOUS  VAGABOND     263 

side  street  he  could  see  Jean  driving  the  geese 
before  him.  He  was  sorry  about  that,  for  it 
was  his  work  to  bring  them  from  the  herbage 
field,  and  he  had  not  meant  to  stay  away  so 
late.  But  he  would  do  without  his  ramble 
to-morrow  and  make  up  for  to-day's  tardi- 
ness by  working  until  dark. 

But  if  Jean  felt  any  anger  toward  his  be- 
lated brother  he  forgot  it  when  he  saw  the 
familiar  garments  of  Lorraine  and  heard  the 
loved  patois  of  his  native  valley.  He  led 
them  into  the  building  that  was  both  shop 
and  home,  where  they  laughed  and  talked 
over  the  meal  that  was  soon  spread  for  them, 
telling  all  the  news  of  the  old  village. 

"We  may  stay  here  for  three  days  and  en- 
joy life  in  our  good  French  fashion,"  the 
uncle  announced  as  they  talked  of  the  joy  of 
meeting.     'Then  we  must  on  to  Rome  to  sell 


our  wares.'* 


For  they  were  lacemakers,  who  once  each 
year  made  the  trip  to  Italy  to  dispose  of  their 
handiwork,  and  had  little  time  for  anything 
save  toil.  But  those  three  days  were  theirs 
for  rest  and  pleasure,  during  which  they 
might   forget   the   world   held   any   cares. 


264  BOYHOOD  STORIES 

They  told  stories  and  bits  of  gossip,  joking 
and  singing  in  tlie  merry  peasant  way  until 
the  Freiburgers  who  lived  close  by  wondered 
why  there  was  such  high  revelry  in  the  house 
of  Gellee  the  carver. 

Next  morning  Claude  was  up  at  dawn. 
There  were  chickens  to  feed  and  geese  to  be 
driven  to  pasture,  and  he  wanted  to  be 
through  before  the  visitors  awoke.  Their 
time  together  would  be  short  at  best,  and  then 
a  year  would  pass  before  they  met  again. 
So  he  meant  to  be  with  the  uncle  as  much  as 
possible. 

The  cathedral  bells  were  chiming  six  when 
he  came  back  and  went  into  the  shop  to  assort 
the  tools.  They  would  do  less  work  than 
usual  that  day,  because  of  hours  to  be  given 
over  to  the  guests.  But  there  was  an  altar 
piece  for  the  church  at  Rosenheim,  an  order 
that  could  not  be  delayed,  and  things  must  be 
made  ready  for  Jean  to  finish  it.  He  moved 
back  and  forth,  putting  knives  and  files  and 
tracers  where  his  brother  could  lay  hands 
upon  them,  and  while  he  worked  his  uncle 
came  in. 

"Jean  says  you  have  made  much  progress," 


( 


THE  JOYOUS  VAGABOND     265 

he  said  as  he  looked  at  the  bits  o£  carving, 
finished  and  unfinished,  that  were  scattered 
about  on  the  tables.  ''Have  you  done  any  of 
these?" 

Claude  v^ent  over  to  v^^here  he  stood. 

"Yes,  some  of  them,"  he  answered. 
"With  the  big  ones  I  helped  and  this  one  I 
did  alone." 

And  he  designated  a  tray  of  silver  larch- 
wood,  on  which  a  flock  of  birds  were  skim- 
ming over  tree  tops. 

The  uncle  examined  it  carefully,  and  as  he 
looked  nodded  his  head  as  if  thinking. 
Claude  wondered  what  was  in  his  mind,  but 
asked  no  questions. 

"I  hope  he  thinks  I  have  done  well,"  he 
thought  as  he  watched  him. 

Then  he  heard  his  brother  coming  in  from 
the  garden. 

The  lacemaker  looked  up  with  a  smile 
when  he  saw  Jean  standing  in  the  doorway. 

"Claude  has  been  showing  me  his  carv- 
ing," he  remarked,  "and  I  Ve  an  idea  about 
him." 

The  boy  stood  still,  listening,  waiting. 
Did  he  consider  his  work  good  or  bad?     He 


266  BOYHOOD  STORIES 

had  put  his  best  effort  into  it,  and  the  brother 
had  often  praised  the  result.  Would  his 
uncle  praise  it,  too? 

Then  came  a  glad  surprise. 

''He  has  done  marvelously  well,"  the  lace- 
maker  said,  as  he  held  up  the  beautiful  bit  of 
handiwork.  "It  seems  he  has  a  gift  for 
carving,  and  methinks  there  is  more  in  store 
for  him  than  being  a  wood-worker." 

And  he  told  stories  he  had  heard  in  Rome, 
of  youths  from  far  provinces  who  had  gone 
there  penniless  and  unknown,  but  being  pos- 
sessed of  genius  had  grown  to  be  glorious 
artists  and  men  of  great  estate.  Might  not 
Claude,  his  own  sister's  lad,  be  one  of  that 
number  ?  And  before  the  boy  realized  what 
it  was  all  about,  they  decided  that  he  should 
go  to  Rome. 

Rome !  The  word  had  a  magical  sound  to 
his  ears.  It  was  far  from  Freiburg,  he 
knew,  across  mountains  and  plains,  many 
leagues  farther  than  his  native  Lorraine, 
that  seemed  so  distant.  He  would  see 
gleaming  palaces  and  great  nobles  and  splen- 
did statues  and  pictures,  hundreds  of  them, 
done  by  masters  of  chisels  and  colors.     In 


THE  JOYOUS  VAGABOND     267 

those  days  there  were  no  railroads  connect- 
ing the  North  and  the  South,  and  the  lace- 
makers,  being  poor,  would  take  the  journey 
on  foot,  selling  their  wares  and  earning 
board  and  lodging  as  they  went.  Leagues 
of  highland,  leagues  of  lowland,  and  perhaps 
trails  drifted  over  with  snow.  But  what  of 
that?  Beyond  was  a  city  of  unnumbered 
splendors,  which  might  seem  fairer  and  more 
incomparable  after  days  and  nights  of  vaga- 
bonding. 

So  southward  through  the  Black  Forest 
they  journeyed,  wood-carver's  apprentice 
and  lacemakers  three,  toward  the  land  where 
there  would  be  money  in  exchange  for  wares, 
and  perhaps  glory  undreamed  of  for  Claude. 
Across  Switzerland  they  went,  and  through 
the  Italian  Alps,  past  lake  and  fell,  into  pink 
and  gold  Tuscany.  Florence,  Lily  of  the 
Arno,  with  her  matchless  gardens  and  pal- 
aced  boulevards,  was  alluring  then  as  she  is 
to-day,  but  Florence  was  not  their  destina- 
tion. Resting  there  a  few  days,  in  a  house 
overlooking  the  river,  Claude  helped  to  dis- 
pose of  some  of  the  laces.  Then  they  moved 
down  the  valley  toward  Rome. 


268  BOYHOOD  STORIES 

Were  his  dreams  of  the  glories  of  the  place 
realized?  Ah  yes !  It  seemed  a  magic  land 
in  which  he  dwelt,  where  all  the  streets  were 
enchanted  gardens  and  all  the  people  folk  of 
Elfland,  and  when  he  went  to  the  great  build- 
ings that  housed  the  works  of  art  he  won- 
dered how  so  many  noble  ones  came  to  be  in 
the  world.  Day  after  day  he  dreamed 
among  them,  thinking  of  nothing  save  their 
beauty  and  color,  planning  for  nothing  but 
that  some  day  he,  too,  should  join  the  com- 
pany of  creators. 

Then  something  unexpected  happened, 
causing  the  uncle  to  leave  Rome  immediately. 
That  meant  one  of  two  things  for  Claude. 
He  must  return  to  the  North  or  stay  in  a 
city  whose  language  he  could  neither  speak 
nor  understand,  with  little  money  in  his 
pocket  and  small  prospect  of  getting  any 
from  his  relatives.  But  he  did  n't  study 
long.  He  looked  at  the  pictures  that  had 
opened  wonderland  to  him,  and  when  his 
uncle  put  the  question  he  answered,  'T  stay." 

So  with  five  sous  in  his  pocket  and  a 
mighty  hope  in  his  heart,  Claude  Gellee  be- 
gan life  as  a  solitary  lad  in  Rome.     In  a  poor 


THE  JOYOUS  VAGABOND     269 

quarter  near  the  Tiber  he  found  cheap  lodg- 
ings, spending  hours  every  day  in  the  studios 
and  galleries  among  the  treasures  to  be  seen 
there.  Sometimes  he  ground  colors  for  a 
painter,  sometimes  turned  choreboy,  making 
enough  to  supply  his  modest  wants,  and 
sometimes — he  went  hungry.  But  did  his 
courage  fail  him,  did  he  think  of  returning 
north?  Not  once.  He  might  have  gone 
back  to  Freiburg  to  the  workshop  of  his 
brother,  or  to  Lorraine  where  his  uncle  lived, 
and  gleaned  and  sowed  in  the  fields.  But 
no!  He  had  come  to  Rome  to  try  his  for- 
tune, to  be  an  artist  if  God  willed  it,  and  in 
Rome  he  meant  to  stay.  Once  in  a  w^hile  a 
little  money  came  from  the  carver  brother  in 
Germany,  once  in  a  while ;  but  the  sums  were 
small  and  the  times  far,  far  apart.  Then  the 
Thirty  Years'  War  broke  out  and  Jean  could 
send  nothing  more.  So  Claude  was  thrown 
solely  on  his  own  efforts,  the  very  greatest  of 
which  did  not  suffice  to  pay  for  bed  and 
board  and  the  teaching  he  craved.  But  he 
would  not  give  up.  He  stayed  on  and  on, 
studying  the  treasures,  working  without  in- 
struction, making  use  of  the  simple  art  prin- 


270  BOYHOOD  STORIES 

ciples  taught  him  by  his  brother,  trying  to 
help  himself  by  watching  and  doing.  On 
velvet  summer  nights  when  pleasure-loving 
Romans  thronged  the  vias  he  lay  on  a  clump 
of  weeds  beyond  the  city  wall,  watching  the 
play  of  moonlight  on  the  Alban  hills;  while 
in  the  perfumed  dawning,  when  the  pulse  of 
the  city  was  still  in  sleep,  he  was  up  before 
birds  called  and  out  on  the  Campagna,  to  see 
the  rose  and  gold  of  sunrise  gleam  out  of  the 
gray,  to  mark  the  line  of  shadow  along  the 
copsewood,  and  note  the  position  of  the  sun 
at  every  change.  Too  poor  to  afford  teach- 
ers, he  went  to  Nature,  master  of  them  all, 
believing  always,  hoping  always,  that  some 
day  he  would  become  an  artist. 

One  morning,  as  he  roamed  back  and 
forth,  looking  at  canvases  in  one  of  the  great 
treasure  houses,  he  came  upon  a  painting  by 
Goffreddo.  It  was  a  landscape  with  broad 
reaches  of  sea  and  wooded  shore,  and  dim, 
fantastic  in  the  misty  background,  palaces 
with  domes  and  spires ;  blue  in  the  sky,  saf- 
fron and«mauve  on  the  sea,  and  a  silver  haze, 
like  a  wind-blown  gossamer  floating  along 
the  tree  tops.     Nothing  seen  in  Rome  had  de- 


THE  JOYOUS  VAGABOND     271 

lighted  him  so,  and  as  he  looked  and  looked 
again  he  thought,  "That  is  how  I  want  to 
paint.  I  will  find  Goffreddo  and  see  if  he 
will  teach  me." 

Successful  artists  in  that  day  were  ac- 
claimed throughout  Italy,  and  although  liv- 
ing in  a  distant  city  the  abiding  place  was 
well  known.  So  it  was  with  Goffreddo. 
Almost  the  first  person  Claude  asked  told  him 
where  to  find  the  master. 

*'He  is  in  Naples,"  said  a  rich  patron  of  one 
of  the  studios  he  frequented,  wondering  why 
a  shabbily  clad  peasant  lad  should  care  to 
know. 

Claude  knew  the  location  of  Naples.  It 
was  to  the  southward,  a  good  hundred  and 
fifty  miles.  But  what  of  that?  Distance, 
lack  of  traveling  funds,  could  be  no  check  to 
one  who  had  gone  companionless  and  on  foot 
from  the  fields  of  Lorraine  to  the  hills  of 
Freiburg,  and  again  on  foot,  by  Swiss  lakes 
and  Italian  plains  to  the  Eternal  City.  He 
would  go  to  Naples,  to  Naples  where  the 
master  dwelt,  and  since  there  was  no  money 
to  pay  his  fare  by  chaise,  what  would  serve 
him  better  than  his  sturdy  peasant  legs  ?     So 


'2^2  BOYHOOD  STORIES 

to  Naples  he  went,  earning  his  bread  en 
route  as  he  had  earned  it  two  years  before 
crossing  the  Vosges  Mountains,  and  in  Na- 
ples he  found  Goffreddo. 

"Better  seek  some  labor  here  and  make 
enough  to  get  back  to  Rome,"  a  loiterer  in 
the  street  said  in  answer  to  his  question 
when  he  asked  the  way  to  the  studio  of  the 
painter.  "Goffreddo  will  not  receive  you, 
for  he  is  selfish  and  hard,  or  if  he  does  he  will 
make  your  life  so  miserable  you  '11  rue  the 
day  you  met  him.  Believe  me,  he  is  a  merci- 
less task-master." 

But  Claude  would  not  heed  his  words. 
Had  he  gone  hungry  in  Rome  and  taken  the 
long  journey  through  a  bandit-infested  coun- 
try only  to  give  up  the  thing  of  his  dreams 
when  it  seemed  within  his  reach?  He 
wanted  to  be  a  painter,  and  Goffreddo  was 
the  master  he  meant  to  have.  So,  undaunted 
by  discouraging  advice,  he  sought  the  artist's 
door. 

Perhaps  it  was  the  story  of  his  days  and 
nights  of  hardship,  perhaps  the  light  in  the 
glowing  eyes  that  bespoke  the  dreamer's  soul, 
but  something  touched  the  master  who  was 


Wonderful   roseate   days  began 


THE  JOYOUS  VAGABOND     275 

called  severe  and  unhelpful,  something  made 
him  feel  that  Claude  deserved  a  trial.  He 
received  him  into  his  studio,  and  wonderful, 
roseate  days  began. 

Life  in  Naples  was  much  as  it  had  been  in 
Rome.  He  ground  Goffreddo's  colors  and 
kept  the  workshop  in  order,  earning  his  food 
about  the  city  by  doing  various  kinds  of 
labor.  And  what  a  dream  city  it  was,  with  a 
glittering  sky  above  a  glittering  bay  and 
miles  and  miles  of  rainbow-colored  terraces ! 
He  loved  to  watch  Vesuvius,  standing  there 
like  a  giant  wrapped  in  mist,  loved  to  see  the 
fisher  boats  float  like  fairy  liners  from  far 
seaward,  the  swarthy  rowers  singing  as  they 
neared  the  wharf  of  Santa  Lucia.  And 
often,  when  there  was  a  little  time  to  spare, 
he  pictured  some  of  the  scenes  in  the  street : 
the  children,  bare  of  head  and  bare  of  feet, 
the  goats  that  browsed  along  the  vias,  and 
the  girls  and  women  who  laughed  at  him 
from  under  scarlet  kerchiefs.  But  most  of 
all  he  delighted  in  painting  the  weird,  dark 
cypress  trees,  the  groves  of  plane  and  olean- 
der encompassing  some  princely  residence, 
the  stretches  of  rainbow-colored  reef  out 


276  BOYHOOD  STORIES 

Sorrento  way,  and  the  gleam  of  rose  and 
purple  Capri  in  the  afterglow.  The  hours 
other  boys  would  have  spent  in  play  he 
passed  with  pencils,  drawing-board  and  col- 
ors. And  when  Goffreddo  saw  how  well  he 
did  he  smiled  and  nodded  his  head. 

*'Yes,  Claude,"  he  spoke  one  day  as  he 
watched  him  work,  "it  was  meant  for  you 
to  be  a  landscape  painter." 

And  the  boy,  rejoicing,  painted  more 
feverishly  than  before. 

Two  years  passed  in  the  city  of  Vesuvius, 
with  rambles  along  the  iridescent  bay  and 
never-to-be-forgotten  hours  in  the  studio  of 
the  master.  Then  Goffreddo  being  unable 
to  keep  him  longer,  he  returned  to  Rome  as 
he  had  come  to  Naples,  vagabonding,  and 
took  up  his  work  more  earnestly  than  ever. 
Agostino  Tassi  was  his  teacher,  and  again  he 
paid  for  his  lessons  by  color  grinding  and 
turning  choreboy,  watching,  listening,  labor- 
ing, improving  every  hour,  until  his  work 
grew  so  excellent  that  orders  came  in  for  his 
pictures,  and  he  opened  a  studio  of  his  own. 

From  that  time  forth  fortune  smiled  on 
Claude.     He  painted  tirelessly,  unceasingly. 


THE  JOYOUS  VAGABOND     277 

always  on  the  landscapes  he  loved  so  much, 
and  always  his  creations  found  a  ready  mar- 
ket. Then  word  of  the  beauty  of  his  can- 
vases reached  Pope  Urban,  who  commis- 
sioned him  to  make  four  pictures  for  the 
Papal  Palace,  which  were  so  exquisitely  done 
that  one  art  lover  exclaimed,  "Such  glori- 
ous work  must  be  that  of  angels,"  and  he  had 
more  orders  than  he  could  fill.  His  land- 
scapes were  in  such  demand  and  brought 
such  high  prices  that  only  the  very  rich  could 
afford  to  own  them,  and  he  came  to  be  what 
his  uncle,  the  lowly  lacemaker,  had  dreamed 
he  might  become,  a  glorious  artist  and  a 
man  of  great  estate. 

And  still  he  stayed  on  in  Rome,  among  the 
scenes  where  he  had  grown  to  success,  paint- 
ing the  sublime  sunsets  of  the  Campagna, 
the  quiet  peaceful  bays  and  coves  of  Naples 
that  had  left  an  indelible  impress  on  his 
heart,  and  loving  France  with  an  exile's  love. 
Once  he  went  back,  spending  a  year  in  the 
haunts  of  his  childhood,  but  the  scenes  he 
pictured  most  wonderfully  were  those  of  the 
Italian  land,  so  to  Rome  he  returned,  never 
again  to  leave  it. 


278  BOYHOOD  STORIES 

But  always  he  remembered  that  he  was  a 
Frenchman.  He  never  forgot  that  his  cradle 
rocked  in  Lorraine,  never  ceased  to  love 
the  valley  where  he  had  lived,  a  peasant  boy. 
And  because  of  the  place  of  his  nativity  and 
his  great  love  for  it,  they  gave  him  his  coun- 
try's name,  and  he  who  was  born  Claude  Gel- 
lee  is  known  to  fame  as  Claude  Lorraine. 
For  undying  fame  he  won.  Guileless  toiler 
from  the  banks  of  the  Moselle,  joyous, 
dreaming  vagabond,  he  grew  to  be  the  king 
of  landscape  painters,  the  brightest  star  in 
the  art  of  France.  The  beauty  of  his  can- 
vases is  incomparable,  and  although  gifted, 
ambitious  men  have  been  striving  to  equal 
him  for  over  two  hundred  years,  no  one  has 
succeeded.  Still  he  stands  alone,  the  master 
portrayer  of  nature,  of  whom  Sir  Joshua 
Reynolds  said,  "We  may  sooner  expect  to 
see  another  Raphael  than  another  Claude 
Lorraine." 

Is  it  therefore  strange  that  France  is  proud 
to  have  her  immortal  son  bear  the  name  of 
one  of  her  great  provinces? 


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